


Magnesium and Oil

by quaid_poppinjack



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: AU still angels and demons, Action/Adventure, BAMF Aziraphale (Good Omens), BAMF Crowley (Good Omens), M/M, Mild Gore, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Mythical Beings & Creatures, Non-Linear Narrative, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Slow Burn, Wings, celestial creatures, creatures with really long names, historical events, thousands of years of anthropology crammed into 6 millennia, unicorn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-15
Updated: 2019-09-15
Packaged: 2020-10-19 08:40:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 26,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20654333
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/quaid_poppinjack/pseuds/quaid_poppinjack
Summary: Agent Aziraphale and Agent Crowley are each tasked by their head offices to capture the Celestial and Infernal Creatures that have escaped from Eden. The biggest prize is the Celestial unicorn. It's horn boosts power, and it's blood might usher in Armageddon. It's a fate neither Agent wants for humankind, and Aziraphale is so very weary of fighting a war.--“Aziraphale!” Crowley bites out, voice cracking with pain.“Nearly there!” He rips the case from his pocket and drops to his knees, popping it open with a loud click and holding the Hellfire spark in his gloved hand as far away from his body as possible. It ignites the Infernally cursed magnesium, and it flares with a brilliant cold light. Aziraphale is nearly blown back but is able to flip into an army crawl to scramble away.Crowley drops the timehold with a tremendous snarl that rips from deep within.“Get...this...utter....bastard outtahere, angel!” he pants out and steadies himself on a tree trunk.The Celestial Sinaa is growling, scratching out at the flame, singeing itself over and over and becoming angrier with each welt of pain.--





	Magnesium and Oil

~~~ 

PRELUDE

In the beginning, Aziraphale observes Adam and Eve succumb to the Sin of curiosity. It is many more years before he realizes he's done the same. 

He stands upon the walls of Eden and watches with a demon at his side, watches until they are specks on the horizon. Watches them carry off his flaming sword. 

The animals leave next: all manner of bird, mammal, reptile, amphibian, and insect. 

When all the Celestial Creatures of Eden begin to escape, he becomes worried. 

“I thought they physically couldn't leave Eden?” he asks Crawly. He does not ask why a demon seems to know more about Eden than was provided him before his assignment. 

Crawly is stretching his wings and following the flighted Celestials with his eyes. “They were asleep last I checked,” he says. 

Aziraphale allows the energy they generate wash over him. “Why do I sense an aura of occult in some of those? I thought the Almighty Created them before she even began Creating Earth?”

“You don't know?” Crawly asks. He turns from the sky to look at him. His hair blows across his face. 

“I don't know much about Heaven, to be honest.” He pulls on his robes with anxious fingers. “I was Created right into the War against the Revolting Angels. Did well and was sent here.” 

Crawly turns back to stare off into the distance. He seems lost in memory. “She worked with Angels of the first sphere to design the Celestial creatures. They were meant for the universe, into the stars, other systems.” 

“What happened? “ Aziraphale asks softly. 

“Any Celestial created by Angels of the first sphere who are Fallen became Infernal in nature. Doesn't matter. Neither are supposed to be on Earth.”

“Oh. That's too bad.”

“Do you pity them, the Infernals?” he asks harshly. He steps back. 

“No. No I don't, not pity.” Aziraphale muses. Now it's his turn to stare at the dunes in the distance. “I don't understand why, but the Great Plan is ineffable and not meant for me to understand. I'm sad. Even the damned are deserving of absolution.” He turns and is puzzled to see Crawly's stunned expression.

~~~ 

EDEN, SEVERAL WEEKS FROM ADAM AND EVE'S DEPARTURE

The sun rises and sets for many cycles after Adam and Eve leave the Garden, enough nights passing for the waxing crescent moon to grow to full. Aziraphale has no other guidance than his previous orders and so remains there, Guardian of only the few remaining animals and the lush greenery unable to wander beyond the East Gate. The Agent of Hell, Crawly, grew bored several days ago and has wandered off to follow the humans. He tried to tempt Aziraphale with abandoning his post with no success and departed into the harsh desert with a farewell wave. 

Aziraphale wishes he could disobey and follow from sheer curiosity. What would Adam do? What might Eve do now? Will his flaming sword aid them in protection from the many dangers? Will Crawly be one of those dangers? He frets but stays put.

He does not realize that by his obfuscation when questioned by the Almighty about his sword, he has introduced Lying into the fledgeling Earth. He does not know even at his worst, Lucifer never lied. 

His robes itch from the grit of sand and one morning, he is considering clothing himself differently, shedding his Heavenly issued robes to clad himself comfortably as Adam and Eve had, when lightning flashes and strikes the desert before him. He flutters back, wings flapping and curving protectively until the luminescence fades. 

An Angel stands before him in true form of fire and wings and thousands of eyes. Scattered around it on the sand are shiny, transparent chips that refract the sunlight into a spread of multiple colors. Thousands of years from now, the sons and daughters of Adam will name it 'glass'. God will name the prism of colors 'rainbow' in a much grander and terrible gesture. 

“Agent Aziraphale,” the Angel who has appeared before him echoes directly into his mind. The Angel coalesces and settles into an Earth-friendly corporation similar to the one Aziraphale has been issued, mirroring Her Creations of Adam and Eve. Two legs, tall, slender and clad in flowing robes with violet eyes and vast violet wings spread so wide they throw Aziraphale into shadow. 

“I am the Archangel Gabriel. Greetings, Agent Aziraphale, Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate.”

This is a surprise. Aziraphale has never been addressed by any Archangel nor any Angel of the first sphere, even during the War for which he was Created. His two conversations with Her and orders during War from a Power of the second sphere comprise all his communications from the higher ranks of Heaven. 

Gabriel tilts his head at Aziraphale, his attention piercing like the heron watching the fish in the streams of Eden. “We've got ourselves a tangled mess, Agent Aziraphale.”

“Yes. Um. I've already explained to the Almighty about my sword-” He stops and clasps his hands in front of his stomach. 

“Oh, never mind that. Now we have bigger problems. Most of what's not rooted to the soil in Eden has gone forth to multiply upon the Earth thanks to your inability to halt the temptations of an Agent of Hell, haven't they?” He raises his eyebrows and steps close enough so that Aziraphale must look upward. 

He thinks about Crawly, considers the pleasant conversations they shared upon the walls of Eden before he left and keeps quiet.

“The Celestial and Infernal creatures were not meant for Earth. They were kept here, fast asleep, until the time came for them to move on.” Gabriel reads from a scroll, and his wings gently raise and lower over the sand. “I'm tasked to be your supervisor, and you have a new assignment as Principality of Earth. You are hereby charged with protecting the humans from these Creatures.”

Aziraphale feels somewhat stunned. “How would I even start to do that?” He thought he'd be teaching the Virtues and spreading Love, not more fighting. 

“Capture some for return to Heaven, kill some, most importantly, make sure Hell doesn't get hold of them.” Gabriel says the last sharply. 

“Kill?” Aziraphale repeats, dismayed. 

“That's why I'm here. I have a Message, a Blessing of Knowledge. Come forth, Agent Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale steps close as if pulled by strings, and Gabriel places his hands on either side of head. He pours Knowledge and Instructions until Aziraphale is nearly faint. He stumbles back and must steady with his wings when it's over. 

“How might I even accomplish these tasks?” he says weakly. He had dreamed of peace and now must make war. It is a much smaller scale than the last, but it will be battle upon battle. 

By miracle, Gabriel materializes a satchel of items and tools meant to aid in his Assignment. He also hands Aziraphale his first set of scrolls of knowledge, scripted in glowing Enochian. 

“We'll be in touch,” Gabriel says and vanishes in a ball of light. 

“Oh dear.” Aziraphale still feels dizzy but retrieves the satchel and places it on rocks near the Gate. He breathes deeply of the floral Garden air. “I guess I'm moving on,” he says to no one, but there are still birds, insects, and small mammals that remain. He steps into the garden to say goodbye to what he knows and feels very lonely. 

He hears a sudden crunching beyond the raspberries and spins around to see the culprit. The unicorn is grazing beyond the bramble. Aziraphale stares at it, captivated. It raises it's head to look around. It is a beautiful creature, somewhere between the size of a small horse and large goat. It's eyes match the skies on the very bluest day, it's mane and tail look spun from spidersilk. It's body shines with a silvery iridescence. It's most striking feature, of course, is the horn atop it's head glowing soft and golden. 

The unicorn snuffles at Aziraphale and snorts. When he takes a step towards it though, it backs up some and gives an anxious nicker. “I'm sorry. You are a thing of beauty. I think you are wise to remain here.” It swishes it's tail but doesn't leave. Aziraphale feels a warm pulse of affection from it in response. “I hope I never have to Hunt you.” he whispers to it. Then he turns to the vast desert beyond the Gate.

~~~ 

PRESENT DAY, LONDON, ENGLAND

It is late afternoon and Aziraphale is well overdue to settle down with a soothing cup of cocoa and an adventure novel for once rather than one of his many books of mythological studies of Creatures from his vast collection. He places his most recent Assignment letter from Heaven into a book on _ Aquatic Fantasy Creatures of Scandinavia_ as a place marker. A nasty thigh injury from the previous week has slowly healed but remains painful. Just as he makes himself comfortable at his bookshop desk, the shop phone rings. He is closed, and it annoys him, but he answers just in case. 

“It's me,” Crowley says before Aziraphale can muster a greeting. “Meet me at our secondary rendezvouz point. I have something I need to tell you.” He disconnects, leaving Aziraphale staring at the handpiece, mildly grieving his quiet evening. 

He sighs and gathers his very old multi-pocketed camel hair coat and very new canvas satchel he picked up to replace the one eaten by the Buru the week prior deep in the Himalayas. He never leaves without either. 

At St. James Park, Crowley is sprawled over half the bench waiting for him, straining his leather trousers, and is anxiously drumming his fingers upon his knee. His head jerks up when he senses Aziraphale is near, and he watches him approach with his head tilted in concern. 

“You're limping,” he says. 

“A little,” Aziraphale admits. “You know how I needed to Trap that Buru recently?”

“That's Infernal,” Crowley says. “You went back to the bookshop? You should've come to me right away when you returned to England.” 

Aziraphale sits, careful not to jostle his injured thigh. “It was healing, albeit slowly. Honestly, all I could think of was closing up shop and taking a few days to myself to camp out at home and read.” 

“Com'ere,” Crowley says softly and places his hand over the injury. Aziraphale shivers and not just from the prickle of the healing.

“What's the news on your end,” he asks, in search of distraction.

“They're pushing hard for the unicorn now. Instead of waiting for Armageddon, they'll force open the Seal of Revelation with it's blood.”

“It's still a theory!” Aziraphale says, distraught. He fusses with the buckles on his satchel, not yet familiar with this newer style. 

“Eh. Lucifer doesn't think so, and he'd know. I'm not alone these days either.” Crowley slumps back into the bench and throws a handful of crumbs for the ducks. “Since we last spoke, Beelzebub's issued a reward for the Agent that brings in the unicorn. Just need it's horn and blood and _Boom_, the end times.” 

“I just got an envelope hinting at something similar, with more Agents assigned.” Aziraphale admits. “As if they'd know how to Trap anything anyhow,” he grumbles. 

“It's a sign both sides want to force Armageddon soon, within years. It'll only get worse,” he says morosely. “They're going to push harder because of how much of an advantage it'll give them. I don't remember much about the Thrones and Cherubim but I remember their one-track bloodymindedness.”

“I still-” Aziraphale lets his words drop, not wanting to initiate the same argument they always have. He has serious doubts on the wide spread theory infiltrating both Heaven and Hell insisting the blood of the Unicorn, the purest creature ever to exist, could crack the Seal early and subvert the Great Plan. 

Crowley shifts so both his legs are kicked out in front of him and crossed at the ankles. Only his head is turned toward Aziraphale, which means he is about to say something the angel won't like. “We need to work together to capture that unicorn, and then we need to eliminate it and destroy it's horn.” 

“What? No, Crowley, that's preposterous.” Aziraphale bolts straight up to his feet and faces Crowley. “We can't murder it on the off-chance it's blood _might_ jumpstart Armageddon! It's the purest Celestial creature!”

“We _murder_ mythical creatures all the time, Infernal and Celestial. They don't all get Sent off. Now is not the time to get all territorial over whether an Angel or Fallen Created it, angel!” His voice is rough and distressed, and his body conveys the desperation he must be feeling even with his eyes obscured by his sunglasses. 

“This is different. The Unicorn is different! It isn't hurting anyone. Hasn't ever attacked anyone. It's completely innocent!”

“A lot of _innocents_ are going to perish in the Apocalypse or in the war between Heaven and Hell if we don't do something!” Crowley says, clearly upset. “We need to destroy it!”

“I want no part of this, Crowley, I mean it!” His chest aches, but he's so upset he cannot stay. He walks away from the bench, turning once only to choke out, “Think of something else, I will not kill that wholesome creature that just wants to...to frolic in a meadow!” 

He spins away and stalks off, shaking with anger. If he turned, he would see how Crowley has whipped his sunglasses off and is pounding the heel of his hand upon his forehead, cursing both Heaven and Hell for putting them in this position. He would see how Crowley very desperately does not want anything as wretched as this to come between them after so many years. 

But Aziraphale does not turn.

~~~ 

2809 BC MESOPOTAMIA

Aziraphale is holed up in a temporary home near the banks of the Euphrates. It is flush with life, with wading birds nearly as tall as he is, and sedges poking from the water to stretch into the sky. Humans have spread throughout the Earth in the time since Eden, and a fledgeling culture occupies the land between the Tigris and where he stays now. There's been a surprising lack of communication from Heaven, but he dutifully has kept abreast of mythical Creature sightings. He often moves from land to land, learning the people, their languages, their art. He grows fond of humankind in all it's cleverness and creativity. He dines with them and joins their fireside for tales of bravery and for some of woe. Over and over, he sees the humans have found ways of battling the Infernal and Celestial creatures not meant to be of this Earth.

Perhaps Heaven sees this and will not need to call on him. Still, he learns the habits and abilities of these Creatures. He keeps careful mental notes of what weapons are to be used against them beyond what he's been provided. He still carries the satchel given to him by Gabriel, but he has updated the contents. The only original pieces are the Infernally cursed magnesium and Hellfire spark for trapping a Celestial, and the consecrated oil he can ignite with his own Holyfire to trap an Infernal. They are unused. 

He sees Crawly twice during this time. Once, east of the Ural mountains embedded with a nomadic group. Once, in a small group traveling the land of Beringia, now submerged beneath the Bering Strait. He wonders what other temptations Crawly might be performing if he's also spending time with humankind. It doesn't matter; Aziraphale has not been tasked with demons other than keeping the mythical Creatures from their hands. 

One morning, just after refreshing his robes, he is nearly blinded by a dazzling light near the entrance of his little clay and reed home. A white envelope sits out-of-place upon a dried wash of river mud. He feels the sudden trepidation as he reaches for the the missive, swallows down his anxiousness, and breaks the seal. 

His first official Assignment. He must hunt down and capture for Heaven Ysengrim, the great wolf. He will need to leave the Euphrates and return to his stronghold, his permanent location for his scrolls and tablets and notations painted in ochre straight onto cavern walls. His research is ethereally protected by a sustained miracle deep within the plateau caverns known in the future as Lascaux. He stretches his wings and takes flight wistfully, already missing the quiet lapping of water and squawks of shorebirds. 

Ysengrim is one he's taken notes on once upon a time. He is an Infernal wolf, sometimes known to hide as a monk, roaming the mainland of what will be called Europe. It is an easier task for him to locate the general area of a Celestial creature rather than an Infernal, but he casts his senses wide and makes the attempt. Ysengrim. Ysengrim. He catches a faint Trace and concentrates to slip into interdimensional space to materialize closer to that point. This takes much more energy than flight, but it is very accurate. 

It is night when he arrives. The thick forest brings a darkness that feels more ominous than the blackest steppe night. With his back to a large tree, he wrenches his wings inward and lifts the straps of his satchel from where it sits crosswise upon his chest. He is in robes and sandals and feels anxious and underprepared in spite of all his academics. Hundreds of years of imagining this moment is nothing like the real thing, he finds. He snaps his fingers and whispers, “Let there be light,” so he can consider his options. 

In a loose bundle within his satchel, he carries scrolls, a quill, gastropod shells corked with bark holding various powders, an earthenware flask miracled unbreakable of consecrated oil, another of Infernally cursed magnesium powder, his well protected Hellfire spark, and a drawstring sack of human talismans he's collected over the years. 

Ysengrim. Hmmm. Infernal creature. He'll need to encircle the wolf with oil and alight it with miracled Holyfire before performing the Prayer of Ascension. It sounds correct...according to his notes. He finds he cannot shed the unease. 

“Pssssssssssst! Agent Aziraphale! Is that you? Are you looking to be discorporated by great bloody jowls and teeth?” 

Aziraphale startles and drops the oil flask. His ethereal light is snapped off forcefully and replaced with a glowing ball of occultish infrared. He adjusts his corporation's human eyes to access the wavelength. Crawly is approaching from the shadows, easily picking his way through the shrubs and smaller trees comprising the understory. His hair is still long but braided back, and he wears a belted tunic. His wings are shifted into interdemensional space, though their visual absence still bears weight to immortal senses. His eyes remain the same bright serpentine yellow, and he is bipedal, but his legs are scaled much as they were in serpent form. A dagger is strapped to his thigh above one scaly knee. Aziraphale feels an odd flash of envy as he has already been scratched by brambles upon his bare calves and thighs. Forest debris clings to his ankles uncomfortably. 

“Agent Crawly? What are you doing out here?” he asks, somewhat suspicious. 

“Not serving myself up on a platter for every slobbering carnivore?” he snarks. He stops close and looks over Aziraphale curiously. I changed it,” he says, “My name, that is. Crowley now, less squirming at your feetish, you know.” He studies the disorganized mess dumped at Aziraphale's own sandaled feet and meets his eyes, puzzled. “I expect I'm here for the same reason you are?” he asks. “Ysengrim?” 

“Oh!” he hasn't considered the possibility, but Gabriel _had_ warned him all those years ago. 

“Frankly, I'm surprised we haven't run into each other.” He sways side to side slowly, never still, and fidgets with with the hide strapping dangling from his belt. 

“This is my first assignment. Not long after you left Eden, Archangel Gabriel said I was meant to collect the Creatures not Designed for this world to protect the humans.” He doesn't mention the order to kill.

“And after all this time, this is your first?” Crowley says in disbelief.

“Yes,” he says, nodding crisply and more confidently than he feels. “And of course, I'm meant to keep all Infernal and Celestial Creatures out of Hell's hands because they will only use the Creatures for Evil, while Heaven is only interested in protecting humankind,” he adds somewhat pretentiously. 

Crowley snorts and leans against the oak towering above them, his lips curling into a mocking smirk. “You're about two thousand years late on that, Agent Aziraphale.”

“What?”

“Not long after I left you at the walls of Eden, I was told in no uncertain terms Hell is building a stable for the the next war to triumph over Heaven.” He nudges the tip of one thickly scaled foot at Aziraphale's satchel still flopped across the ground. “Hell has at least a thousand year head start on you if you're the only Agent of Heaven wrangling unearthly Creatures,” he says wryly. 

“For war?” Aziraphale says, indignant. “Heaven only wants to protect the humans! They don't want war!” 

“What've you been doing then for the last two thousand years?” he asks. His expression has shifted to teasing, and Aziraphale cannot help but flutter his wings in annoyance.

“Learning about them. Everything I can. Observing every Creature I find, keeping records.” He looks down at his pile of equipment and scrollwork and back up to inspect Crowley's organized demeanor. His inexperience chafes. 

Crowley is watching him, studying him, picking him apart with his yellow serpent eyes. “So. Tell me what you know about Ysengrim,” Crowley invites. 

Aziraphale eyes him warily. “I'm not sure...” 

“I'm extending the olive branch here,” he says, voice lowering to a coaxing timbre. “I could have nipped off and captured him without you _ever knowing._ Trusssst me,” he hisses. His eyes are wide and compelling and his swaying hypnotic. Aziraphale blinks but cannot seem to tear his gaze away. 

“Ysengrim,” he finds himself saying, “the humans wandering this area don't know him by that yet, just as Great Wolf. He is eternally chasing Reynard the fox, supposedly to catch him, but I've been theorizing it's because they were both Creations of a Fallen Seraph and are drawn to each other.” He pauses and folds his hands to stop pulling nervously on the fabric of his robes. Crowley appears interested and listens attentively in a way which makes him feel strange inside to be the focus of that concentration. 

“Go on,” Crowley encourages, his expression a little admiring, “You discovered it all on your own? It's not background information provided by Heaven?”

“Yes, my instructions only included a name, not even a location!” Aziraphale says, not really understanding why it matters so much to the serpent demon. “Anyhow, physical restraint or nets are a poor idea because he has and can lose his skin and regenerate it, and he's been known to disguise himself among humans as a monk. He's still very animalistic, so best Trap theory I have is to lure with fresh meat into a prepared circle and when he's occupied, fire the oil.” 

He sucks in a deep breath when finished and looks down, breaking their locked stare. Why did he just share all that information? How easily did he just aid the enemy? He crouches down into the decaying leaves and moss blanketing the forest floor and begins to pack up his satchel, stuffing down his flush of embarrassment.

“Hey, don't be like that,” Crowley says. He squats and helps gather up Aziraphale's remaining equipment and looks off into the shadows to the west. “You didn't tell me anything I didn't already know. Well,” he shakes his head, “I didn't know Ysengrim's history or origins, but I know how to capture a very animalistic Infernal.” 

Aziraphale looks up from his satchel. Crowley is close enough that the hair not braided back tickles Aziraphale's face. He blinks and then latches the hide strappings of the satchel and stands. “I know how to capture him, in theory.” 

“I was in the middle of setting my Trap when you materialized and notified the whole blessed forest with your ethereal lights,” he says. 

“Ah.” In retrospect, Aziraphale realizes that was rather foolish. 

“Come with me. I'll give you a freebie.” He stands and walks through the understory, the infrared light following. He strides through the brambles and lithely swerves to avoid fallen trees, leading as if Aziraphale has already agreed to follow. His confidence is rewarded because Aziraphale finds himself stumbling behind, no where near as smooth as Crowley's sure-footed walk through the brush.

Crowley is pulling on black gloves to protect himself from consecrated oil and what Aziraphale guesses is a container for a spark of Holyfire comparable to his case holding a spark of Hellfire. He pauses for Aziraphale to catch up. “Not exactly stealthy, are you,” he says with humor. Aziraphale shoots him an irritated glare. 

There is a clearing ahead. The forest is opened just enough for pale moonlight to filter down and lighten the meadow. “Stay here,” Crowley says and Aziraphale watches, confused, as the Agent of Hell waves a hand as if pulling energy upward from below so a haunch of bloody meat miracles into place within an already prepared shining circle of oil. He pulls a container from his belt and sprinkles it so that drops of something musky permeate the air. He slinks back to duck down near Aziraphale's side beneath a shrub in full leaf. 

“Now we wait,” he whispers close to Aziraphale's ear. “Lots of waiting. I cannot stress how boring the waiting is,” he rambles. “The scent of female wolf in heat will help.” His nose wrinkles as he explains. 

Aziraphale is feeling sheepishly naive as he sees Crowley's consummate proficiency in action. He had imagined some of how this might play out, but he hadn't even considered where he'd get freshly slaughtered meat, what sort he should choose, hadn't scouted the area for where to set his Trap. 

He turns and gives Crowley a strictly assessing once-over. Simple fitted tunic so as not to catch onto snagging thorns or low branches. Aziraphale still wears a voluminous robe unsuitable for sneaking around a forest. A woven bandolier runs crosswise from Crowley's hip to shoulder featuring various slots for containers or tools. A pouched belt of thick worked animal hide holds his equipment. Aziraphale carries the same disorganized satchel provided by Gabriel. Crowley's feet may be pure reptile, but Aziraphale assumes he would have found an alternative to the floppy sandals he himself wears. Aziraphale notices all this and yet completely misinterprets the light blush high on Crowley's cheeks as exertion from the Hunt rather than resulting from his extended study. 

A stick snaps sharply into the night, and they both focus their attention toward the sound. The silence is noticeable now; insects have stopped singing and neither mammal nor bird reveals their location to the encroaching predator. 

And a frighting carnivore he is, entering the clearing at nearly twice the size of a common wolf, mouth drooling saliva, sleek fur otherworldly beneath the moonlight. It pauses, sniffs the air, and slowly moves closer to the haunch of venison. Aziraphale grips his satchel tightly, breathless, and turns to look at Crowley. 

Crowley watches the meadow keenly, a predator in turn, entire being coiled tightly in anticipation. Ysengrim enters the circle of oil shimmering in the moonlight. He strikes at the venison and tears into it with monstrous jaws. Just as quick, Crowley is up and slinking silently across the clearing. It is so sudden Aziraphale would have missed it with one blink. Crowley reaches the circle and sparks the consecrated oil alight with Holyfire. Ysengrim whips his head up and growls, but it's too late; the Holyfire completely encircles the Infernal creature, and Crowley jumps back from the inferno. 

“Come help!” he calls out. Aziraphale clambers to his feet, satchel flapping against his side, and fumbles to a stop next to Crowley. 

“What now?” he stammers. He is shaking and swallows back terror at Ysengrim snarling behind the wall of flame mere feet away. 

“The Ascension Prayer! I was only taught the Descension!” he shouts over the roar of Holyfire. 

This Aziraphale knows resolutely. He steps back, eyes squeezed shut, and he spreads his arms upward in a wide Y shape, palms flat to the Heavens. His wings flare out full and transcendent. He tilts his head back in prayer and recites the Enochean Prayer of Ascension. Energy flashes through his corporeal form, sparkling and luminescent, rushing ears, his breath, his fingertips, until the clearing is silent of the crackle of flame and heat dissipates to leave a coolness against his face and hands. When he opens his eyes, Ysengrim, the flames, and the oil are all gone as if never there.

He hasn't moved, but he is panting and feels restrained as if he has barely kept his true appearance bursting from his corporation. He looks over at Crowley, for approval or appraisal or _something_. 

Crowley is watching him in awe, as if he's never seen him before. It doesn't soothe Aziraphale's anxiousness.

“Was that...was that right?” he asks tentatively. 

“Yeah,” Crowley begins, voice cracking. He clears his throat and licks at dry lips. “Yeah, that. That's good.” He shakes his head, eyes slanted away. “'S a little different seeing that from the outside.”

Aziraphale feels overwhelmed. How will he ever be able to do this on his own? How has Crowley done this for two thousand years? Perhaps he wasn't working alone? “Wait,” he says aloud. “You gave that one to me. I didn't do anything to trap Ysengrim, and you let me send him to Heaven,” he says, confused and fully cognizant there was no way he would have ever accomplished this task today in his unprepared state. 

Crowley adjusts his belt and bandolier, tucking containers into pouches, and finally brings his attention back to Aziraphale. “I told you I'd give you a freebie,” he says genially. His eyes betray a fierceness his voice disguises.

~~~ 

PRESENT DAY, LONDON, ENGLAND

Aziraphale has spent the last two days seething in his bookshop. He rearranges things which do not need moving and nearly bites off the head of a customer daring to wander in during his brief open hours. How could Crowley even suggest destroying the unicorn? If Hell pushes for war, they'll do it regardless of whether they have the horn in possession or not, especially with the variety of Celestial and Infernal species they've captured. 

His front door is locked, but the bell rings to indicate it swinging open anyway. He knows it's Crowley. He's unsure if he's ready to see the demon, but he also hates their distance. He chooses to continue shelving books and allows Crowley to approach on his own terms. 

When Crowley rounds the corner, Aziraphale drops his disaffected air and nearly the book in hand. Crowley is fully geared up and dressed for the Hunt in his dark leather trousers, fitted jacket, and black lambskin gloves. His sunglasses are shoved atop his head and his pouch bandolier is draped over his elbow. 

“Angel! Angel, please, I'm sorry, forget killing the unicorn, we'll find a way to protect it. You've been studying it for thousands of years, you know all the theories, we should be able to remove it's horn safe and hide it, maybe disguise it. Release it in a herd of zebras.” He approaches Aziraphale slowly, hips swaying, expression imploring. “Give it another horn and call it a goat,” he suggests. 

Aziraphale cannot help but relent and smile, knowing Crowley will see him soften. 

Crowley's lips are now curled in a playful half-smile. “Find a way to shrink it down and keep it as a housepet.” He steps closer until the space between them has erased into a short distance, mere inches apart. “Dye it's hair and stick enormous ears on it to call it a jackasssss,” his voice lowers and fades into hissing. He reaches over and pushes the book back onto the shelf by it's spine, grabbing it directly below where Aziraphale holds it. 

“You. Are ridiculous. You know this, right?” Aziraphale says, a little breathless. 

Crowley grins, but then it falters. “Got a rough one. I was hoping you'd help. Please say you'll help,” he adds and swipes his thumb upward from pinky to index finger so a grey sheet of higher quality paper appears in hand. Aziraphale takes it and reads, his eyebrows raising along with his incredulousness. 

“A Sinaa?” he asks. His voice pitches high at the end in surprise. 

“Give me everything you've got,” Crowley says, blowing out a frustrated puff of air. “All I know is it's half proto-human, and Hastur was entirely too gleeful delivering the assignment. I'm wondering if they're distracting me from the unicorn now that there's a reward.”

He winces. Hybrid creatures tended to be much more intelligent and much more difficult to Trap. But if anything, Aziraphale is clever. He's well-read and has become familiar with nearly 6000 years of human culture and artifact and how myth weaves itself through generations of anthropological history.

“I'll go,” he says, as if it wasn't already decided the moment Crowley stepped in the bookshop. 

They arrive in Brazil, close to the sluggish waters of Rio Xingu within remote Brazillian rainforest. Several indigenous cultures call this home, but their impact is nearly unnoticeable. This time, he and Crowley fly under miracled camouflage, arching up from London into the ionosphere and curving downward to a particularly strong source of energy indistinguishable as Celestial or Infernal. Crowley has always been better at the Trace, and Aziraphale follows his lead, like always, like he has since they first captured Ysengrim thousands of years prior. 

Aziraphale spreads his wings to air out and stretch to avoid cramping before he can fold them inward and shift them into another plane. He steps up to the murky waters of the Xingu. His vintage cavalry boots sink slightly into the soft substrate at the riverbank, and his khaki drill trousers are tucked within the bootleather neatly. The only other piece he's purloined from WW1 is the ammo pouch he's repurposed to carry his tools of Trapping. He still uses a satchel for extra supplies and research, strapped crosswise over his unbuttoned camel hair coat. It is humid and scorching, but he maintains a minor miracle of comfort in his heavy layers. His reflection in the riverwater wobbles in ripples of dark and light across his mirrored face. 

Crowley has his fingertips to his temples and is still for once. He murmurs under his breath as he performs a Trace. “Close, but we need to walk some.” He opens his eyes but then pushes sunglasses back onto his face. 

“Infernal or Celestial?” Aziraphale turns from the river and begins to follow Crowley through the thick vegetation. It brushes against him, but Crowley is sustaining a demonic miracle to push it away easy as vapor.

“Not a definitive answer. Better be prepared for both.” Crowley is concentrating hard, but Aziraphale reads his need for information in the tautness of his shoulders and twitchy fingers. 

“Um. Sinaa. Humans think it's product of a human mother and jaguar father, but it's most likely a Creature Created by both a Seraph and one that is now Fallen. It has eyes in the back of it's head, not sure if that is literal or sensory, it can pull off it's skin like a serpent, and there is the belief it is a sign of...”

“Of.” 

“Humans believe it's a sign of Armageddon. They say it will remove the forked stick holding the Heavens apart from the Earth which brings about the end times.” 

“Well. At least it's keeping with the theme,” Crowley mocks. 

They walk for what seems like hours but make little progress in the abundant forest. Everything on Aziraphale is damp. His hair is frizzing wildly in the humidity. The surroundings are a cacophony of life, with birdcalls, insect buzzing, and animals making loud squeals and echoing trills. He comes to an abrupt stop when Crowley swings a blocking arm out across his chest. 

Aziraphale concentrates, and he can feel something too. Not enough to identify, but enough to know they are close. 

“The Discernation dust,” Crowley whispers. He holds his palm flat out. 

Aziraphale nods and pulls one glove off with his opposite hand so he can retrieve an antique snuffbox from an ammo pouch. He opens it and pinches some of the powdery substance inside to sprinkle in Crowley's palm before clicking it shut again so the humidity doesn't deteriorate it. 

“On three? One...two...three!” They both lean towards his palm, heads tucked in close, and blow a steady stream of air to disperse the dust into the surroundings. One ethereal and one occult, both miracling their breath to charge the neutral substance with potential. 

They wait, frozen, and the powdery substance wafts into an aqua-blue cloud before completely dissipating.

“Celestial,” Crowley says softly. 

“Magnesium.” Aziraphale draws back to pull his gloves on. He plucks through his ammo belt and removes the bottle of Infernally cursed magnesium and the special container holding the Hellfire spark within. It won't kill him, but the burn will be painful without his gloves; he knows from experience. He slides them in the breast pocket of his coat, easily accessible. Crowley preps his as well, not needing to be as cautious as Aziraphale in this situation. 

They creep forward again, and Aziraphale's heart thumps, his arms and legs feel electric, and the ichor in his veins sings along with his enhanced senses. It's not enough to make his personal ethereal energy noticeable to the Sinaa, but enough to aid in keeping his footfalls soft and step steadfast. 

It is quiet for several minutes. They move slow, reaching outward with their senses. 

There is a sudden crunching noise; the Sinaa drops from the trees directly onto Crowley's back, tumbling him down into the forest detritus. It is growling and snarling, a grotesque blend of humanoid and feline with human-appearing fingers tipped with sharp talons and a too-large sharp toothed mouth of a jaguar overtaking half a flat human face. Crowley cries out, clearly hurt somewhere, and before he can gather himself together to shock the Sinaa off his body, Aziraphale digs in and tackles it off Crowley's prone form, toppling it to the ground. He keeps his balance long enough to press a knee into the small of it's back to pin it down. It flails and arches it's spine so Aziraphale can only wrench one of it's arms behind it's back. 

While he goes for the magnesium in his breastpocket, his camel hair coat serves well to block a clawswipe at his sleeve. Unfortunately for him, the creature undulates like an inchworm and knocks him backwards, the vial of magnesium flinging into the air and disappearing into the understory. The Sinaa jumps to it's feet and growls deep in it's chest. Aziraphale jerks the strap of his satchel over his head and tosses it to the side, taking a moment to stabilize. 

Crowley has regained his footing, but his sunglasses are cracked upon the ground and his jacket and sleeve are shredded where ichor seeps through the fabric. He shoves his hands forward into the air. The Sinaa is knocked backward with a blast of raw demonic power. 

It lurches but does not lose it's feet and squats to jump back into the trees. Aziraphale reaches just in time to grab hold of it's ankle and drag it back down again. They both crash into a log half-buried in the thin forest soil. Aziraphale feels a sharp pain and is momentarily stunned from impact. Crowley has bounded toward them though and locks his arms around the Sinaa's elbows to draw them back. It fights the hold, whipping it's head and roaring, eyes feral. It gets in a good kick at Aziraphale that pushes Crowley off-balance this time. 

They all pause in a sharp stalemate. Aziraphale knew this creature would be dangerous, half Celestial and half Infernal, humanoid and cunning, but this was beyond. 

The Sinaa promptly spins gracefully, legs planted, and it swipes out at Aziraphale. He backpedals, bracing his ribs with one arm. 

“Crowley, do something!” he shouts, unable to disguise his desperation. 

Crowley snarls, his eyes taking on a red tint and his incisors sharpening as his stress pushes forward his more demonic features. His growl morphs into a loud hiss and wings burst from interdemensional space, snapping wide and cracking branches as they whip outward in a glossy black spray of feathers. He reaches forward as if grabbing hold of the air.

Time stops. The Sinaa freezes with one outstretched claw inches from Aziraphale's nose. 

“Trap it!” Crowley grinds out through grit teeth. 

“I lost my magnesium!” he spits but darts over to start patting down Crowley's pockets and bandolier pouches. “Magnesium?” he asks sharply. 

Crowley strains, fingers spread as if holding an invisible ball, eyes blown fully serpent and red-rimmed. His teeth clench to nearly cracking as he channels more demonic power to keep time paused in his bubble of influence. “Second pocket down!” he says shakily, and Aziraphale scrambles to withdraw Crowley's vial of magnesium. “Hurry!” He is beginning to tremble. 

Aziraphale pulls the top and runs toward the Sinaa. He avoids it's outstretched claws to pour the magnesium in a surrounding circle. He pats his coat breastpocket, relieved that at least the Hellfire spark is stable. 

“Aziraphale!” Crowley bites out, voice cracking with pain. 

“Nearly there!” He rips the case from his pocket and drops to his knees, popping it open with a loud click and holding the Hellfire spark in his gloved hand as far away from his body as possible. It ignites the Infernally cursed magnesium, and it flares with a brilliant cold light. Aziraphale is nearly blown back but is able to flip into an army crawl to scramble away. 

Crowley drops the timehold with a tremendous snarl that rips from deep within. “Get...this...utter....bastard outtahere, angel!” he pants out and steadies himself on a tree trunk. 

Aziraphale grabs hold of his own coat by both lapels. He yanks it off his shoulders to drop to the forest ground. 

The Sinaa is growling, scratching out at the flame, singeing itself over and over and becoming angrier with each welt of pain. 

“Where's it going?” Aziraphale shouts over the hiss of fire, over the snarling Sinaa, over the frightened mammals and birds disturbed by their struggle. 

“Send it to Hell!” 

Azirapahle nods in one sharp jerk and slaps his hands together with power that echoes like a distant thunderclap. His wings materialize and sweep open, reflecting the burning magnesium with a pearlescent shimmer. He steps close to the Infernal fire and bows his head down, arms wide but low at his hips, palms downward and teeth grit because he's not supposed to be able to do this, the Prayer of Descension appealing to Hell, to Lucifer, to everything he is supposed to be against as an Angel. 

His chest is aching where he crashed into the log, but he Speaks the words, drawing the miracle upward through him from the depths of Hell, the energy frazzled and crackling, sizzling though his corporation and skirting along his ethereal core like a mild sunburn. He heaves a huge breath and looks up to see the fire gone out, the Sinaa transported to Hell, and Crowley stripped from his fitted coat, shirtsleeve torn though as ichor drips from three deep claw marks in his arm. 

He is exhausted but staggers over to Crowley anyway, feigning calm while his mind screams inside. “Everything's tickety-boo on this end, my dear boy, may I see your arm?” he says conversationally, proud that his voice doesn't waver from the sheer amount of trembling throughout his body. 

Crowley's forehead and the corners of his eyes crease in pain. He curses too low for Aziraphale to make out completely. “Oh, please do, if you wouldn't mind?” he begins faux-casual and hisses when he clenches his fist to hold his forearm out. 

Aziraphale pushes past the fear he holds every time he must draw the Descension energy; that one day, he will have Fallen and be unable to access Heaven's miracles. It's never come true, and he forges on, channeling the healing he needs from Heaven to bind Crowley's flesh, to remove any trace of the Sinaa's Celestial energy and an embedded broken claw. Crowley has his head curled into Aziraphale's shoulder, turned away, sucking air loudly through grit teeth that eases up as Aziraphale draws his fingers away from the mostly healed gashes. There are scars that will sit permanent on this corporation. Crowley flexes his arm to test it. He steps away to crack his neck and roll his shoulders back with a groan of displeasure. 

“That was.” Aziraphale cannot conjure an acceptable description, and the sentence dries up on his tongue. He goes to collect his coat and satchel and anything else scattered about. The forest is scrubby but thick, and it is difficult to find smaller items. He gives up on those. 

“I could sleep for a decade,” Crowley says as he adjusts his clothing and equipment. “Or take a very very long shower in hot water.” 

“I require tea, osaka maki, and a decent Pinot Noir.” Aziraphale says. He looks at the tattered state of his clothing and huffs. “Not like this, though.” He meets Crowley's eyes, unsure. 

Crowley sighs and flexes his fingers. “I could get us to Rio? Probably not much further without _actually_ needing a decade long nap?”

Aziraphale considers this. He aches and feels filthy from rolling around the ground and is a little burnt out. He will need to breakdown his equipment and repack it as well. “Ipanema?” he suggests. “It's been years!” he says, warming up to the idea. 

“Won't get your sushi, but there's plenty else,” Crowley says. He reaches for Aziraphale's hand and threads their fingers tight as if he'd done so many times before and transports them out of the forest.

~~~ 

SIX MONTHS POST GREAT FLOOD

Many cycles of the moon have passed since Aziraphale witnessed with great unease as Noah and family loaded animals onto the great ark he constructed upon the will of the Almighty. No other angels joined in his self-imposed penance. The waters have regressed. Aziraphale spends time flitting between the ark and high ground, alone with his thoughts. His cavern of stored knowledge remains safe, though too crowded now. In actuality, much of the Earth is safe, oblivious to the sorrow and suffering in these lands.

Aziraphale is...confused. It is not his place to object, and yet, he cannot scrub away the questions Crowley put forth in his mind. 

He wonders where Crowley had gone once the rain became unceasing. 

Many animals were saved, but Aziraphale thinks, what of the Celestial and Infernal creatures? He has Trapped dozens for Heaven on his own by this point, the directives coming slow but global. Some certainly do not appear dangerous to humans. The only creature God Designed with the Angels (and now Fallen Angels) rating an attempt at safekeeping upon the ark was the unicorn. 

That hadn't worked out. 

He thinks perhaps he needs to begin keeping record of the passage of time as the humans do because while some still adhere to the moon cycles as a most obvious marker, others are building their own calendars and marking days on those calendars for remembrance and celebration. One can be ignorant to time when one is eternal. 

Aziraphale is in flight this moment, something he's spent days at a time doing, wings flapping the bare minimum to remain aloft. He fears as the humans continue to spread and build in numbers, he will no longer be able to do this without causing chaos. He is considering new locations for his collections of scrolls and tablets and which culture he might settle near next when he encounters the reverberation of demonic miracle rippling through the atmosphere. He only knows one demon on Earth so far and angles toward the source. 

It is an island he's visited before, temperate and pleasant, situated off the west coast of what will one day be known as Canada. Last Aziraphale was here, a small band of humans introduced themselves as Kwakwaka'wakw and shared charming performing and visual arts with him. He tries to recall what might attract a demon. 

He lands near but not distractingly so with soft feet and muffled feathers to confirm it is Agent Crowley. In reality, as soon as he sensed the demonic miracle, something inside had recognized instinctively. They last parted poorly, but before, they had crossed paths many times since Trapping Ysengrim and have even competed on Hunt for creatures. This current Creature, strongly Infernal, is already bound by Holyfire but not Sent.

Crowley is robed just as he was when he'd visited the ark. However, he is also strapped and belted in the Hunt gear Aziraphale has grown familiar with. He is hunched over and his broad black wings are mantled near the Trap. There is visible damage to his primaries as if he'd engaged in aerial battle with the Creature. Crowley tenses. His head snaps in Aziraphale's direction, but upon recognizing the intruder, he returns to his Trap. 

Aziraphale takes several steps closer. It is a monstrous bird with a malformed, gore streaked beak. It screeches a sound painful to his ears. He looks closer, peering through the Holyfire. “Is that Galokwudzuwis?” he asks, surprised. No wonder Crowley's wings are tattered and his robes are ragged and torn. 

He has tried to Hunt this Creature before. He found her near impossible to Trap, much like most airborne Celestials and Infernals. 

“Yeah. Was a blessed nightmare to Trap,” he says, sounding weary. He strips his bandolier off to cram into Aziraphale's arms. “Hold this and get back.” 

Obliging, Aziraphale accepts the equipment and watches as Crowley bows his head and spreads his wings to perform the Prayer of Descension. The surroundings become charged, and for several heartbeats, Crowley's entire being and wings are slicked a deep red and awash with an explosive and damned power. 

The resulting silence is heavy. Crowley looks disoriented. 

“Do you have a place you're staying here?” Aziraphale asks in an attempt to assess his health. He has Crowley's bandolier with all it's containers and oils bundled in his hands. “Your wings, I could see to them if you'd like?” He surprises himself with the offer but doesn't take it back. It is a great favor of trust to turn your back to another, and he's just asked for a demon's vulnerability to an angel. 

Crowley meets his eyes, nonplussed. “You're offering to preen my wings?” He walks near and gently retrieves his Hunting equipment from being twisted in Aziraphale's hands. He purses his lips, perplexed. 

“Yes. Look at their state, Crowley! Galokwudzuwis did quite a number on you!” 

“I was passing by. Otherwise, I would never Hunt like this, in robes.” A slip of smile appears on his lips. “Unlike some Angels-”

“Oh you hush. I've tried different...things,” he finishes lamely. He currently prefers a Egyptian shendyt for Hunting, which he found works better than his previous choice, and a tougher sandal, which does not. 

“I.” Crowley's head tilts up and to the left, possibly in thought. “You may. Um. Preen my wings,” he finally agrees. They make their way to an nearby eroded outcropping. Crowley takes a hesitant seat, facing toward the volcanic rock so his wings are exposed. Aziraphale follows and lifts the strap of his satchel over his head to remove it before settling in behind Crowley. 

“I never had success with Hunting here,” Aziraphale remarks as he flattens his palms over the curve of one wing to feel for irregularities. He begins by plucking at loose and bent feathers. He is unsure how long Crowley will permit preening and knows they will be the most distracting if left alone. Crowley is exceptionally tense. He leans rigid on the outcropping. 

“A few years ago, I sent her mate to Hell, apparently. I didn't know.” His shoulders drop slightly, and his wings droop some as more uncomfortably twisted coverts are straightened. Aziraphale counts that as a success even as Crowley hisses in pain when he must carefully remove a damaged pinfeather. 

“Bakbakwakanooksiwae.” he supplies, noticing the lull in conversation.

“It's a mouthful, that is.” Crowley acknowledges. His voice is softer now as he unwinds from the pressure of Trapping a difficult Infernal. He shivers when Aziraphale smooths his hands over the finished section. “How do you keep it all in your head?”

“I thought it was a fascinating tale when I learned from the Kwakwaka'wakw. Adam and Eve, many of the animals and plants, humans from Eden onward, they were pairing up.” He pauses and is thankful Crowley cannot see how heated his face has become while sharing this story. His fingers are digging deep into Crowley's scapular feathers down to the skin, where he personally tended to itch uncomfortably. “Some for companionship, some for sex, some for strictly reproductive purposes. And it wasn't happening with Celestial nor Infernal Creatures, by Design likely.”

Crowley's muscles drain of tension while Aziraphale continues to smooth ruffled contours, moving from one wing to another, then attends to the more damaged outward primaries and to the secondaries that fared better. “I donno. Could you imagine an entire nest of these Creatures terrorizing?”

“Well, that's just it. Most these Creatures are isolated; I'd been studying them for years, and here was this Infernal, horrific bird-like thing that had gone ahead and mated another horrific bird-like thing. It was...interesting.” 

“She's been on a rampage, targeting children and infants, cracking skulls to eat their brains and eyes and...ugh. It was just-”

“You wanted to finish the job,” Aziraphale suggests so Crowley doesn't tense right back up with the fear of being thought of as nice, regardless of what his actions reveal. 

He goes silent and drops his head onto his folded arms while Aziraphale moves on to finish working quietly. Aziraphale hasn't preened anyone since mid-War, well before he was stationed at the Eastern Gate. He has forgotten how soothing it is for both participants. 

“Satan is angry.” Crowley blurts, somewhat muffled by his sleeves. 

“When is he not?”

“Funny. He had plans for the unicorn that drowned in the flood. The belief is that whichever side holds the horn concentrates and amplifies their strength.”

“Heaven believes the same.” Aziraphale recalls his most recent visit to report in to the head office. Michael an Uriel were adamant he locate the unicorn to keep it away from Hell. 

“There's more. The blood of the Unicorn is so pure that if spilled on the Seal of Revelation it will break it and bring about Armageddon earlier and more concisely than trusting in a great ineffable plan.” He says the last in mocking tone. “They're unhappy I didn't secure it for our side before it was killed,” he adds dejectedly. 

“Do we know it was killed?”Aziraphale asks softly. “I don't feel like it was. It was sweet. Felt different from the others.”

“I only saw it from a distance. It didn't like serpents.” He sounds disgruntled over this fact.

Aziraphale has finished as much as he can out in the wilds of an island, and when he finds himself just gently running his fingers over Crowley's wings, he feels it wise to back off. “All done!” he says brightly and slightly embarrassed over his indulgence. He brushes down his clothing then moves to retrieve his satchel. 

“Right. That helped, I think. Do you want me to...uh...to preen yours?” He looks like he is torn between running off and yearning to touch Aziraphale's wings. 

“Maybe next time?” he offers gently. “I need to get moving soon,” he adds, though it isn't urgent.

“So,” Crowley says awkwardly as he adjusts his robes and restraps his bandolier. “Where will you be off to next?”

“My collection's stored in a cavern, but it's nearly full. It's a bother to sustain the miracle keeping them cool and dry. I need to find somewhere new. And humans, clever things they are, have developed forms of writing concurrently in different parts of the world so there'll be much more!” He cannot hide his eager smile. “It really is an exciting development!” 

“Any preferences?” he asks far to casually for it to be mere curiosity. 

Aziraphale looks around the robust fir trees and pebbled substrate lining the clearing they are in, but he's imagining it all from his view aloft. “An island, perhaps? Maybe wooded for some solitude.” He glances back at Crowley, who is stretching his wings to their fullest, his expression content. “Not actively volcanic,” he clarifies. 

Crowley tilts his head in consideration and watches as Aziraphale shakes out his own wings. “Noted. See you around, angel,” he finally says and lifts offs toward the continent with a few powerful wingstrokes. 

A grainy cloud of dust puffs up from the surface in the backdraft. Aziraphale steps back from it and follows Crowley with his eyes until he is far beyond the horizon. He rolls his neck to soothe a kink before taking to the air himself, deep in thought. He usually needs to research and narrow down an area when searching for an Infernal or Celestial creature. Crowley seems to find them across the entire Earth. Could he try the same, perhaps? He pushes hard on a downward stroke, far surpassing his preferred height for flight. He believes the chill and pressure will not affect him, so it doesn't. 

Aziraphale is still Principality even with this assignment overtaking all else. He is meant to be entrusted with kingdoms and nations and races and lands. He engages in this now, floating nearly five hundred kilometers above the Earth to allow his rusty awareness to unfurl upon the land and waters. He drifts in this meditative state, touching the souls of humans and the lifesparks of Celestial and Infernal creatures all scattered across the landmasses. 

His eyes snap open when he senses a promising concentration of Energy. He is stiff; he must have been up here quite some time, so after one enormous stretch of limbs and wings, he dives down toward the lifespark he's isolated. 

He is right. His faith has been rewarded. The unicorn lives and grazes out on the Eurasian steppe in the scrub and grasslands among herds of saiga antelopes and thick statured horses. It's horn shines as if able to generate it's own glow. Aziraphale alights near it and is nearly bowled over by an extraordinary feeling of joy.

The unicorn shakes it's head and makes a nickering sound in greeting. He feels a little silly when tears burn at his eyes; it's only another Celestial, he tries to convince himself.

And yet.

He is still, not wanting to frighten it as he did in Eden, but it approaches him anyhow and snorts. He dares to reach forward. The Unicorn snuffles at his hand and pushes it's head against his forearm. 

“Oh goodness,” he says. “Aren't you a pushy one.” He scritches at it's cheek and near it's ears and is filled with a nearly unbearable sense of Peace. A light sweep along it's horn reveals that it does seem to be warmer than any ram horn or bare antler he's touched. It lifts it's head and pulls on Aziraphale's loose robes with it's teeth until he pulls the cloth away. “Silly thing,” he scolds. He imagines it looks at him as if it knows all the answers of the universe but cannot share. 

“I won't let them take your horn or drain your blood,” he promises fervently. He's not sure how to fulfill it, but he will try.

~~~ 

PRESENT DAY, LONDON, ENGLAND

Two unusually quiet weeks have passed since capturing the Sinaa, only interrupted by occasional post requesting updates on the unicorn search. Aziraphale amuses himself finding different ways to destroy Heaven-sent acid-free cardstock. He and Crowley spent two lazy days recovering in Rio before he returned to the bookshop and Crowley left to Trap a simple Celestial. 

A letter arrives upon his desk this morning, between the moment he prepares cocoa and the moment he returns from the kitchenette. 

He is Assigned to Trap the Infernal Goryschche. He stares at the letter, completely taken aback. Immediately, he miracles his shop closed, flipping the signs and drawing the shades. He works to unbury a spot large enough on his desk and miracles the area sanitized. He concentrates and darts around his shop, pulling books and old parchment, two ancient scrolls, and a journal he took down oral histories in. 

With gloves on to preserve the delicacy of the older materials and a padded instrument to turn pages, he reads.

And reads. 

And reads.

Goryschche is a twelve headed dragon the size of a mountain living within rural Russia, rumored to be created by Lucifer himself before he Fell. It is ferociously dangerous but has been slumbering for thousands of years. It is so large, it was placed outside of Eden within the deserts and has only awakened once, on the moment Eve bit into the apple of the Tree of Wisdom. 

There is no way Aziraphale could Trap this Infernal, even with it Cursed asleep. He couldn't even carry the amount of consecrated oil needed to encircle it. Perhaps he is even meant to be killed. 

Aziraphale stands from his desk feeling very heavy indeed. He looks around his bookshop full of thousands of years of mythology, folklore, anthropology, hand-written journals, ancient scrollwork, transcriptions from brittle clay tablets and stone walls. He walks to the back room in a daze to the shelving where he keeps a supply of Infernal magnesium, consecrated holy oil, and his spare Hellfire spark. There are disused and non-functional vials and containers he's swapped out over the years and a basket stuffed with ammo pouches and belts and strapping. 

He looks over at his satchel he's never left without, hanging on the peg next to his beloved camel hair coat. 

He. Is. Done.

Determined now, he preps space on his shop floor to prepare a Circle of communication. He is shaking so much he can barely light the candles. He stands before the Circle and prays. 

There is nothing for minutes. Then the area abruptly erupts in light and echoes with a disembodied voice. 

“Who has summoned the Metatron from the surface of the Earth?” 

Aziraphale swallows back his anxiety and boldly says, “It is Agent Aziraphale, Principality of Earth.”

“Yes, yes,” the Metatron says. “We have been waiting on you, Aziraphale. Do you have news about the unicorn?” 

He sucks in a deep breath and looks down into one of the candles to stare at the flame dancing upon the wick. He blinks the tears back from his eyes. They have just sent him to Trap an impossible Infernal Creature likely _no angel nor demon_ could ever be able to capture or even attempt to while not being noticed by twenty-first century humankind.

And they are asking about the unicorn. His heart is laden with pain. 

“No, sorry. I wanted to let you know, I quit. I'm not Hunting anything else. Including the unicorn,” he adds, nearly spitting the last out. 

“Aziraphale, you are not permitted to quit. The Trapping is how we defend Earth. Trapping the unicorn is your priority. Trapping your Assigned Creatures is mandatory. If Hell begins the war, how else will Heaven stand to face the Adversary and their army of Infernal and Celestial creatures without our own?”

Deep in his heart, he had known Crowley was right. He curls his hands into fists to halt their shaking. There is no return.

“Well, I'm letting you know I won't be doing any of that any longer. Find someone else. Too-da-loo!” he sings, sounding crazed, and blows out the candles to disconnect the Circle. He is trembling but also giddy with pride. He has done what he thought unthinkable. And he might suffer for it, but it is the right thing to do.

He must find Crowley and let him know. And he must pack what he needs from the bookshop to run. He will confess to Crowley all that he's hid about the unicorn, grovel for forgiveness for his lies, and hope that Crowley's willing to help protect it.

~~~

NORTHERN FINLAND 1100 B.C.

Aziraphale has encountered the unicorn many times over the last millennium, sometimes accidentally and sometimes by searching. He finds it easier each time, and he is delighted but increasingly curious on why no one else seems to locate it. Any attempt he makes to move it by miracle slide away. It seems to tolerate his presence in any case, and the perception of Peace and clarity of thought he experiences just by watching it graze or rollick through the fields is addictive. 

He tries to conjure that serenity now and ignore the painful gash across his abdomen as he circles the Infernal Surma. It is canine-like beast with snake tail, can turn humans to stone with one look, and it exhales a sulfuric stench. He suspects it might be venomous as well, though that detail never surfaced in his research. In fact, he turned up very little within writings or in oral histories finessed from the few humans he'd encountered in the frosted barrens and fens of this lapland.

He was forced to discard the bronze short sword he'd picked up in Crete years ago, but not before several true strikes that would have ended a mortal creature. It only made the Surma angry; it lands several swipes of it's own. It's tail whips like a pendulum, and it follows Aziraphale with bloodshot eyes. It stains the packed snow with dripping blood. 

“If you could just back into that circle of oil, you blasted thing, if you wouldn't mind,” he pants out, eyes narrowed in pain he is too weak to miracle away. He feels a little delirious. The Creature emits a guttural barking sound in response. 

There is a sudden loud whoosh and black feathers sweep across his vision as Crowley skids to the ground from out of nowhere. His momentum is great enough to shove the startled Surma within the Trap. Aziraphale takes advantage of his abrupt appearance and dives onto the thin layer of snow and ice to set the oil alight with Holyfire through miracle. He sits at the edge, too exhausted to move. He is in no way able to summon the energy to perform the Prayer of Ascension. Snowflakes melt on his linen tunic. He must blink them from his eyelashes. 

“Your side can have it,” he says to Crowley, feeling wretched. He has no idea where Crowley came from or how he found him, but he hasn't seen the demon in months. He is thrown by the relief he feels. 

“Maybe I can try Sending it up for you,” Crowley suggests. “I've watched you do it enough, got it memorized.” 

Aziraphale is shocked at the suggestion. “Or it could completely destroy you, why would you even...I'm giving it to Hell!”

“So you can collect even more reprimands?” Crowley says pointedly. “I believe I can do it.” The determination radiates from every part of his being. His breath is puffing in white clouds as he speaks. “I don't think it matters, Heaven or Hell, it just gets Sent, like pulling the reins on a chariot for the right direction.”

“Crowley!” he shouts, aghast. He pushes to his feet as best he can with his abdominal injury and takes a step toward him. It is too late. Crowley's wings spread to their fullest, the inky feathers shimmering with reflected icy blue Holyfire. His head is tipped back, and Aziraphale cannot see if his eyes are closed behind the unusual smoked quartz he's started wearing recently to obscure them.

When Crowley lifts his arms and Speaks the Enochian, Aziraphale gets as close as he can without touching, flustered and achingly worried, prepared to intervene. Crowley is panting now; a high pitched whine slips out, but he otherwise seems safe as the brilliant light of Ascension crackles with a bright flash and flows though Crowley. It resonates within Aziraphale by proximity.

Everything goes dark and ceases in a weighted silence. The Surma is gone and the fire is out. Crowley stumbles backward and folds in his wings before he gives a disbelieving laugh and grins. “Just what I thought,” he says, breathless. 

Aziraphale is utterly stunned. “You did it!” he echoes. What does this even mean? Was Crowley right? “I thought it would smite you! Or at least discorporate you!” He straightens his posture, meaning to congratulate Crowley, but he sucks in a sharp breath and bends over when it agitates his injury. 

“Lemme try to heal it,” Crowley says. He pulls the odd lenses from his eyes and stuffs them into one of his bandolier pouches. “I'm on a roll here, come'on.” 

Aziraphale lifts his arm and pulls the shredded linen of his tunic so the sluggishly bleeding gash is exposed. It's not deep, but the skin edges are ragged, and his normal healing is stunted by the Infernal nature of the injury. 

Crowley flattens his palm against it. Aziraphale has to scrunch his eyes shut against a flare of pain that morphs into the barest trace of soreness. 

“I bet you could do the same, you know, Prayer of Descension,” Crowley says, voice low and close to Aziraphale's ear. 

Aziraphale shivers and keeps his eyes closed. He feels warmth in the healed skin beneath Crowley's palm that has yet to move. A different sort heat flushes throughout his body from the touch. “I don't think my side would go for that,” he says shakily. 

“What they don't know won't hurt.” Crowley says softly. His hand slips away and Aziraphale opens his eyes. He cannot meet Crowley's wide and intense gaze right now. He looks out into the distant fen from where they stand in the snow. 

The only thing that moves in this barren, frozen landscape are the icy flakes fluttering to the ground.

~~~ 

WEST FOREST, HIGH WEALD OF ANDREDSWEALD, LATE OF ROME, 458 AD, SOUTH ENGLAND

For almost half a millennium, Aziraphale has nearly abandoned his duty to Heaven and allowed the missives to stack up, shoved into his satchel where they wrinkle and wear against the flasks and bottles he still carries wherever he goes. He throws himself into his research and builds a vast collection of material that is currently scattered in various deteriorating stone fortifications around Europe and the Middle East. He makes Rome his homebase in order to better access the rapid production of knowledge. He rarely Traps the occasional Creature, and when he reports to Heaven, he gives long, rambling excuses on how difficult the Hunt is now that humans are everywhere.

At the last check in, Gabriel had nodded along, and when Aziraphale had finished, he'd said in a condescending tone, "I'd say do your best, but your best hasn't been that good, has it, Aziraphale. It's better for these Creatures to be kept here, in Heaven. You never know when they might be of use, and they aren't doing any good wandering around down there tempting capture by Hell. And with the unfortunately loss of the unicorn horn...” He had regarded Aziraphale knowingly, and Aziraphale had experienced queasiness for the first time ever over not disclosing the truth of the unicorn. 

“So I should Trap more of them. So humankind is protected,” Aziraphale had added, beginning to feel a little cynical. 

Gabriel's grin had been chilling. “Of course. The humans. They stir up enough trouble on their own without Infernal and Celestial beasts running around! We wouldn't want to reprimand you for not fulfilling your duty, now would we?”

It was all very disheartening. He could not stop musing over Crowley's words from years ago about Hell preparing for war. 

He allows all of these thoughts to wither away and chooses to focus on the present. The sun peeks out from behind streaky gray clouds in the mid-October afternoon. The air smells earthy and fresh, and Aziraphale is following Crowley in thick stands of trees and sun-dappled clearings through a sunken droveway. The leaves have taken on various shades of orange and red, though some still cling to their summery green. His steps are sure over the ground. The forest of Andredsweald stretches wide in every direction. 

“Will we be there soon?” Aziraphale asks. The mild curiosity he felt when first reading Crowley's letter has shifted into a burning need to know. He was getting restless anyhow; Western Roman rule looked to be on it's way out and fallen empires were never pretty. 

“Just wait, hasn't anyone given you a surprise before?” Crowley says. He pauses, then looks over his shoulder with a sly quirk to his lips, “Isn't patience a Virtue, angel?” 

“Ha.” 

They continue onward, out of the droveway and deeper into the westernmost woods of the high weald. Aziraphale resolves to enjoy the walk for what it is, a pleasant autumn hike without any worries of a Hunt or needing to hole up in his rooms nearly swallowed by parchment as he researches his next Creature and feeds information to Crowley on the Creatures the demon tasked with. And when the same target comes up on both Heaven and Hell's lists? He often demurs. 

He's just _so tired_ of it all. “Don't spoil the surprise you're so determined to keep, but what have you been doing out this way?” He thinks back and doesn't remember discussing an Infernal or Celestial in these lands, but he should never expect a demon to be entirely truthful. Or at least, he ought to believe so. 

“I needed something different,” Crowley says. He plucks as leaf off an oak as they walk and twirls it in his fingers so it becomes a blur of rust and brown. “Rome pulled out a few decades ago. The humans are all fighting. It's entertaining. Hell's been here a while supporting a rebellious monk, if you'll believe that.”

“Really?” 

“Pelagius, was big on spreading how original Sin doesn't taint human nature, not needing divine Grace to be morally perfect or something like that.” He waves his hand, dismissive. “I don't really get involved in all that while stuck being a dogcatcher.” He says it as if he doesn't care, but Aziraphale can hear the frustration in his words.

“I'm ready to move on too,” he says, thinking about rumors he's heard in the streets. 

“Nearly there. It's got a permanent demonic miracle for misdirection, but I doubt anyone will find it here. It's most a days walk or more to the South Downs Way. That's the busiest path running east-west these days.” 

Aziraphale is about to ask what could be so important it needs protection when Crowley stops unexpectedly and snaps his fingers. A cottage built of stone and timber materializes into view. Aziraphale gasps in disbelief. Something cracks in his chest. He slows his walk as if approaching something fragile and precious. He is stunned and cannot speak. 

“It's not much and still needs work, but it's already got the shelving. Had to erase a lot of memories of the tradespeople. Built in a whole room without light- not that a lot gets through the canopy- but you said some of 'em can't be in sunlight, I remember that, right?”Crowley is babbling, clearly anxious, voice turning up at the end of his sentence. 

“Crowley!” he chokes out turning to stare at him. “How did you. How. When!” He cannot seem to find his tongue. 

Crowley fidgets and does not meet Aziraphale's eyes. He makes a large production at tying his hair back with a leather strip. 

“You said you wanted an island. Some trees. No volcanoes. I thought, temperate climate, seems good. Not too many humans around, but the coast isn't too far. No roman roads though this bit.” He pushes door open and indicates that Aziraphale should walk in. 

“This is...you didn't need to..!”

“Angel, your library is spread across two continents and shoved into great honking piles of stone,” he says pointedly, though his cheeks have pinked up. He runs one hand over a hardwood shelf. “I obviously did this for _ myself _, make it easier when you're obliging enough to dig up everything you know about some Creature I have to Hunt.” 

“Obviously,” Aziraphale says in nearly a whisper. 

It is bare inside, but the shelving is built into the walls and a table hewn from mismatched hardwoods sits on one side of the main room with chunks of log serving as seats. The only other furnishing is a thin marble slab fashioned into a desk supported by woodblock legs. 

Aziraphale is dumbfounded. He spins around slow, taking it all in and finally looks to Crowley.

Crowley's entire expression and body language read to Aziraphale as a mix of pleasure and insecurity. Crowley is now watching him, but he still circles the room like a caught tiger. 

Aziraphale can feel his smile in his cheeks and eyes. He feels like he might be glowing and checks his hand to make sure. No one has ever done something so nice for him, especially for an offhand remark years ago. 

“I don't know what to say!”

“Don't say anything?” Crowley says. He leans against the stonework of the fireplace. “Could start bringing it all over. I donno about the tablets. You move that Akkadian over to something lighter to carry?”

Aziraphale doesn't answer, he can't yet. He is so overwhelmed he sits on one of the woodstumps after removing his satchel and opens it to lay out the contents upon the table. The routine is soothing; he can finally meet Crowley's eyes. “It would be nice to have it all in one place. Miracling myself places is draining if I've got a Hunt and Ascension to perform. It's getting harder to fly without causing panic and prostration,” he adds, wincing. 

Crowley pushes from the wall to retrieve a terracotta container and two earthenware mugs from the adjoining room. He brings it back to the table across from Aziraphale and unseals it to pour the wine and hand over one of the mugs without knocking into Aziraphale's tools of Trapping spread across the table. 

“You were optimistic on how well this would be received,” Aziraphale says wryly. 

“Always.” Crowley takes his own mug and makes himself comfortable. “Needed a drink anyhow. Beelzebub wants me to secure the Achiyalabopa and Vodianoi as quick as possible. 'S a pain.” 

As always, Aziraphale cannot help himself. He takes another sip of the very gritty wine. “Mmmm. First one's got a long history in the southwestern deserts of that northern continent between the Atlantic and Pacific Oceans. It's a Celestial bird-like creature, supposedly has very pretty but sharp wings.” 

“Not my favorite to Trap, birds,” Crowley says. He is attentive and fixed on Aziraphale while he sips his wine, and his expression is content and relaxed. He always watches and listens intently when Aziraphale goes into a Creature's history. Aziraphale has only recently admitted to himself that it drives some of his research. 

“The other's a semi-aquatic shape-shifter. I think it fluctuates with moon phases, but I'll have to pull that journal for you to verify. It's somewhere in northeast Asia, maybe more north?” He looks off to the side in an attempt to remember and sips from his mug. “Something about living near a mill. That might narrow it down,” he adds, meeting Crowley's gaze again. 

“Uuuugh,” Crowley grumbles. “That's months gone right there. Difficult to Hunt and halfway across the world.” He kills off what's in his mug and pours more, then flops his arms and head down onto the table. He reaches for Aziraphale's case for his Hellfire spark and clicks it open to poke at it. 

Aziraphale wrinkles his nose at Crowley, and he pulls a scroll back from the middle of the table so it doesn't end up getting crushed. “It's interesting though. I have to do the same, too much travel. I've got an Assigned Camazotl, which is an Infernal bat-like Creature not too far off from where your Achiyalobpa is.” 

Crowley perks up. He purses his lips in thought. 

“And I've got to Trap the Tatzelwurm,” Aziraphale continues as he replaces his consecrated oil into his satchel, “which is a cat-lizard Celestial, from what I've found. It lives in the Alps somewhere or west of the Central Alps.” 

“Oh do you?” Crowley says from where he's now leaning onto the table, chin propped on his fist. He is looking at Aziraphale somewhat deviously.

“What's that look,” Aziraphale says, wary. He starts repacking the rest of his satchel contents in order to have something to do with his hands. 

“It's a bit ridiculous, both of us going thousands of kilometers, all the way there, unseen or blending in, then the time it takes to Hunt, then all the way to the other side of the planet.” 

“What are you suggesting?” He freezes and tilts his head, feeling apprehensive. 

Crowley is still opening and clicking shut the Hellfire spark case. Aziraphale reaches to pull it from his hands. “You know I can do the Prayer of Ascension and send 'em to Heaven,” Crowley reminds him. He grabs for the magnesium instead before Aziraphale can pack it away and holds it up to eyeball the contents. 

Aziraphale huffs and finishes packing the rest. “Yes?” 

“Saves us a lot of time if one of us goes to western Europe and Asia and one of us goes across the ocean for the two out that way.” He cocks head and lifts a beseeching eyebrow.  
.  
“I don't know,” he says, feeling a little shaky. He is feeling tempted by the suggestion, but it sounds too bold and slightly dangerous. “What if I can't do the-”

“If it comes down to it, you could Send it up. I'll take the heat,” Crowley says, building steam for his argument. “I'll tell them I was thwarted by an agent of Heaven.” He sits up from the table and waves a hand toward Aziraphale. “But if you can...” he draws out the vowel, and his smile becomes a wicked grin. 

Aziraphale finishes packing and plucks the magnesium from Crowley's fingers. He thinks about Gabriel, thinks about the lack of guidance or communication from Heaven other than his Assignments. “They would know,” he says, uncertain. 

Crowley shakes head. “Didn't say a thing to you about the Surma I Sent, did they.”

“Well no.” 

“And I might've sent a few more since that time. Don't think I didn't see your Assignments piling up.” He props both elbows on the table now and rests his head on his folded hands. His expression is teasing. Aziraphale flushes. 

“Oh. Oh dear.” He pauses and realizes why Gabriel was tetchy but not entirely upset. “I didn't know.”

“They didn't either. And I'm willing to bet my side'll be the same way.”

“It's...possible,” Aziraphale admits. 

“No one'll know the difference as long as it's done,” Crowley coaxes. His eyes are wide; he stares straight into Aziraphale's. 

Aziraphale's resolve weakens, and he finishes everything in his mug, looking into the depths to hide from Crowley's intensity. 

Crowley is nearly leaning across the table in his eagerness to sway Aziraphale. “This won't need to sit empty for next few months it would take to Hunt and Trap Infernal and Celestial beings in two completely different parts of the world,” he says and adds, “You know I'm right.”

“True.” Aziraphale sighs. He holds out his mug for more of the much too sedimented wine. “Okay, fine.”

“You'll do it?” Crowley draws back and sounds surprised that his tempting worked.

“Yes, yes. Fill it to the rim, my dear boy, I find myself in need of it now.”

“A toast then,” he says, grin wide with pleasure and nearly gloating, “to celebrate our little arrangement.”

Aziraphale holds out his mug and hopes for the best.

~~~ 

THE PRESENT, LONDON, ENGLAND

The bookshop air smells of snuffed candle smoke. Aziraphale picks his Assignment letter for the Goryschche off his desk and stuffs it into the breast pocket of the vest he wears over his linen shirt. He just needs to grab a few more things before running home to the cottage. He goes to where his coat hangs and pulls it on. He then turns to grasp the strap of his satchel automatically, his muscle memory kicking in. He freezes. He has had a satchel of all his supplies of Trapping with him anytime he stepped away from safety. For nearly six thousand years. 

He releases the fabric so the satchel falls to the floor, and he steps away, leaving it behind. 

He is unbound, and it is terrifying. But he has also been bravely at war for several thousand years. He can do this. 

Aziraphale steadies himself, and he is nearly ready to leave when he hears the bell ringing from someone stepping through the locked front entrance. He bites his lip, knowing it's not Crowley's energy he feels. He walks into the main shop space. 

It is Gabriel, flanked by Michael, Sandalphon, and Uriel. They stand in a line in an obvious effort to block the exit. So this is how it will be. He breathes in deeply and goes to meet them. 

“Gabriel!” he says with false joviality. “How might I help you, the others,” he nods in greeting to the three other angels respectively. He clasps his hands in front of his belly and unconsciously has braced his feet in a battle ready pose. 

“Oh, Agent Aziraphale,” Gabriel says, shaking his head. “You've been a disobedient angel, haven't you?”

“Foolish, even,” Sandalphon says. He is smiling, but it does not reach his eyes. 

“Really?” Aziraphale says sharply. He is disappointed and upset but hopefully conceals it. “Hunting and Trapping Celestials and Infernals _as Assigned _ for nearly four millennia constitutes disobedience? Foolishness?”

Michael takes two steps forward toward him in what Aziraphale thinks must be an effort at intimidation. “But Aziraphale,” they say in a sickeningly sweet voice, “How _ did _ you manage to Trap all those Creatures and somehow miss a bright white Celestial unicorn? Might you have had a little _ demonic assistance? _ We know the Adversary has an Agent here on Earth.” 

“Why don't you hand over your research on the unicorn at least, so we can finish the job and secure it's horn?” Gabriel asks in a way that makes it sound like a demand. 

Aziraphale blinks and looks at each Archangel in turn. He thinks of Crowley, patiently walking him through Trapping Ysengrim all those years ago. Gabriel had shoved a satchel in his hands and instructions in his mind.

He thinks of the unicorn, galloping away into danger from the safety of Noah's ark where it was deemed the only Celestial or Infernal Creature worth saving, but only because Heaven could profit from it.

“I don't have any,” he says, measured and firm. “And as I told the Metatron, I quit the Hunt. I'm happy to care for Humankind, but not. Like. This.” His stomach twists but he feels strong. 

He walks to the door in a bluff of nonchalance, moving easily between Gabriel and Uriel, who appear so startled the don't stop him. 

“Agent Aziraphale!” Uriel speaks for the first time. Aziraphale turns and realizes she has an arm bent out, palm flat and splayed upward. Gabriel is still next to her. Both Sandalphon and Michael have joined them. The four Archangels form a half-circle within the entrance foyer to his bookstore like a broken halo.

“If you quit, and you don't have anything on the unicorn,” Uriel begins as her palm forms an apple-sized ball of flames. 

“You don't need this place of commerce any longer,” Gabriel finishes, “Right?” 

Aziraphale watches with bleak horror as Uriel steps back and swipes her hand over an entire shelf of very dry, very flammable antique books. They ignite with a loud whoosh. Rather than stay and watch so much of his life burn away, he closes his eyes and miracles himself away.

~~~ 

1658 AD, WEST OF LYONS, FRANCE

Aziraphale sits crosslegged in a meadow not far from a a creek that cuts it's way through the damp soil. It is summer and the air and grasses are full of life. He has brought a special treat for the unicorn, a handful of sugar that it lips off his outspread palm. He is delighted and smiles brightly at the Celestial creature. The unicorn is comfortable with his presence these days. It greets him by playfully shoving it's head into his chest. Aziraphale can run his fingers through it's soft mane now. It snorts and butts him again when the sugar is gone. 

“It's all I brought,” he apologizes. He finds himself talking to the unicorn often, reassuring himself it still lives. He wonders if Crowley would tell him if he's Trapped it. Crowley rarely mentions it; a few hundred years ago, he said Hell had caught wind of a sighting and tortured the information out of the poor human. 

He was drawn to it today because earlier, just as he'd returned to the library in the cottage from Trapping the Infernal Cherufe high in the Andes, he found the cream-white envelope sitting in the middle of the only open spot on his table. 

The unicorn, realizing the treat really is gone, returns to grazing. It's tail swishes and brushes Aziraphale's arm while he digs though his satchel to reveal the missive. “I'm sorry, dear thing, but I don't know how much longer I'll be the only Agent assigned to Trapping, or if they might just to target you. “_'Unicorn still lives, '_” he reads aloud, knowing it's mostly for his own sake. “_'Spotted by Michael and Sandalphon en route to visit and Bless Spanish Cathedral. Very Important to locate and Trap this Creature horn intact with very little loss of blood.'_” His despair colors the bitter sigh he cannot contain. 

“You must be very careful now. Things are beginning to change. I don't,” he pauses to stand up and straighten his clothing, and he shifts the satchel strapping more comfortably over his chest. “I don't know what to do. I've been Hunting and Trapping for nearly my entire time on Earth.” He smooths his hand over the unicorn's flank. “It would be nice to be here as the angel I thought I might be, help others, spread love, visit something humankind has created for fun and not because I'm healing between Hunts. I was horrified by the War against the Revolting Angels and yet I feel as though I've never left it.” 

The unicorn only lifts his head to nudge at his hand.

~~~ 

SEPTEMBER, 1666 AD, ENGLAND

The cottage is stuffed full of ancient papyrus scrolls, loose parchment, illuminated manuscripts, and printed books. He has an entire shelf dedicated to oral history put to ink by his own hand. The surrounding forest he loved to walk has fallen in many places for timber. It is still picturesque, thought this summer was abominably hot and dry. He often goes for rambling walks to look way out toward the south, reminiscing how he once could take to wing easily, skirting the sea and dragging fingertips along the chalky cliffs. There are too many humans to do this now without needing to spend much of his energy on miracles just so he might feel the wind. Civil war and a plague have just ravaged England, and Aziraphale wonders why it always must be war, why it is nearly always in the name of religion or greed. War brings Famine and Pestilence, and that is entirely too many reminders of Revelations for his comfort. 

Today, he leaving to meet Crowley up in London so they may cobble together travel until they reach a loch south of Inverness. He is meant to Trap a large aquatic Celestial Dragon submerged there. Anything large is difficult, anything aquatic doubly so because the Creature must be brought to a solid surface to ignite the Trap.

After many years in their Arrangement to ease their workload, they've somehow gravitated toward working together to Trap Creatures. Aziraphale isn't completely sure how he feels about it. His unspoken ability to find the unicorn whenever he wishes sits like a stone in his gut. Nevertheless, he enjoys working alongside Agent Crowley, and he is eager to see him after nearly half a year apart and speaking only by letter. 

The coach he joins smells foul. Aziraphale is not fond of this very new form of travel but has taken the human way this time after a quick miracle to appear near a carriage stop on the road up from Brighton. The humans regard him oddly, unaware of his station and therefore unaware of how he should be addressed. For the Hunt, he wears knee high leather boots with suede breeches, and a linen shirt beneath a doublet he had tailored specifically in France. He wears no hat and keeps his curls short, just above his ears, which seems to upset some humans in this time period. His satchel is strapped as always. He reads to pass time as the coach jostles along the path, and that draws eyes as well. 

He nearly falls forward when the coach comes to an abrupt stop. 

“By God!” the driver says, sounding frightened. Aziraphale looks around at the hazy sky, sniffs and notices an unmistakable burning smell. He scrambles from the coach and realizes others have stopped as well. A large part of the horizon is glowing and with dark plumes of choking smoke filling the air. Flocks of birds move away from this torrid vision.

London is on fire. 

Aziraphale is struck with fear. Fear for the people of London, fear for Crowley. He abandons the coach in search of a secluded area where he might concentrate on a miracle of camouflage and fly the remainder of the way. His only other option is to miracle himself through the interdimensional space where his wings hide, but he needs a focus for his energy to do so. He feels too anxious to concentrate that deeply, so flight will have to do. 

He must land east of London proper near the Thames and uses the wind direction as a guide to avoid the majority of smoke. The air is thick with it and ash. People are running, carrying children and elderly or floating belongings in the river, east past the Tower of London away from the flames. People are screaming. Horses have been released from tether and run free. Aziraphale maintains his miracle until his wings are wrenched in and phased to interdimensional space. 

Aziraphale had suggested he and Crowley meet at a coffeehouse in St. Michael's Alley off Cornhill tomorrow. He concentrates, the same way he did to find the Unicorn, but he knows Crowley's occult energy so well now after so long that he pinpoints him immediately. 

Crowley is is not far. Aziraphale runs for the first time in recent memory, his knee-high leather boots slapping against stone and his satchel flapping at his side. He chooses not to breathe so ash does not clog his throat as he traces the London wall northward. 

At the Eastern Gate of the London Wall, Aldgate, an Angel nearly crashes into a Demon. 

Crowley's face is streaked with soot. His specially made spectacle frames with lenses of smoked quartz are missing, leaving his eyes yellow-wide and fully serpent in view to all. His hair is unbound and in a tangled stringy mess around his shoulders. His face is pinched in fear, and he holds a shaking, filthy, wailing child in his arms. 

“Aziraphale!” he cries as he staggers from coming to a stop so quickly. He does not seem surprised to see him. “I couldn't leave her, nearly was trampled, there's so many more-,” he says, breathing hard and voice husky from smoke inhalation. “No one cares about the orphans.”

Black tumbling clouds speckled with red-hot sparks billow in the distance. The bright oranges and reds of the crackling, hissing, monstrous blaze reflect so even the sky looks smoldering and aflame behind Crowley's head as he stands, panicking, arms clutching the little girl.

He has never looked more like an Angel who has mistakenly Fallen. 

“All right then,” Aziraphale decides. “We'll leave her with the Vicar I just passed and go back in for more.” Crowley only nods, his lips pursed in a tight line. 

They never do travel up to Loch Ness to Trap the Celestial Dragon.

~~~ 

1767, HIGH WEALD OF SOUTH EAST ENGLAND

Crowley is so distraught by the fire he sleeps the last of the seventeenth century and a good portion of the eighteenth. Aziraphale knows this because Crowley does so in the little cottage, coiling into serpent form upon a cushion stuffed with lambs wool after yawning for two days straight. Aziraphale moves it to a wall near the fireplace, away from any drafts. 

He is comforted to know the demon is safe and checks him often, but it brings an awareness to his loneliness, how dependent he's become on Crowley's frequent presence. He makes short acquaintances with humans, but never a true relationship of any sort with them. He is barely on a speaking basis with the other angels. He reads, he listens, he studies the humans, but always as an observer. Then he is off to Trap the next Celestial or Infernal he's Assigned. 

When Crowley has slept for twenty years, Aziraphale becomes even fussier over Gabriel's Assignments, and he only Traps a select few for Heaven.

When Crowley has slept half a century, Aziraphale begins to intercept Beelzebub's Assignments and Traps some for Hell.

By the time Crowley is close to waking, nearly a hundred years into his nap, Aziraphale has noticed a very common refrain tacked on to Assignments from both Heaven and Hell: Look for the Unicorn. Find the Unicorn. The fate of the war depends on the Unicorn. We won't need to leave Armageddon to chance and could bring about the war if only we had the unicorn. 

It is a Wednesday, mid-April, 1767, when Crowley awakens and slithers from the cushion to take a more human androgynous form. He sways and moves languidly, his limbs loose and his head moving more serpentine than anything. His tongue darts out, still forked, and his reptilian eyes have lost any of the white rimming he has when calm. He slumps into a chair across from Aziraphale and leans heavily on the table with his elbows, head resting on his folded hands. He scopes the room with drowsy eyes.

“Lotta booksssss, angel,” he says and then shakes his head as if it will knock the sibilants into place.

“My dear, you've been asleep a very long time.” Aziraphale pauses in his reading and places a ribbon in the page to mark his spot. “Nearly a century.”

Crowley's lips form a rounded 'o'. He cracks his neck in both directions to a satisfyingly loud pop. “Not unprecedented,” he says. 

“Do you need to...hibernate, occasionally?” Aziraphale says. He cringes when Crowley shoots him a dirty look before softening. 

“When I fell asleep, there weren't stacks of books all over like this!”

“I know, I know. I recently purchased a property in London. You'll be amazed at how it's recovered. I'm going to open it as a bookshop and move most of this over.”

“You're going to part with your books and sell them?” Crowley asks, suddenly alert. 

“Doubtful,” Aziraphale says, realistic, and places a protective hand flat over the over of the one he's reading. 

“And move?” Crowley adds. He sits up from his slump and peers more frantically around the cottage, and then he glances at Aziraphale across the table, his face betraying his unease. 

“Oh Crowley,” he says kindly, “we're keeping the cottage, of course. I know you had it built for the library, but I thought...” Aziraphale looks at how overcrowded it's become, more storage than functional. “I thought. I want a life beyond Hunting and Trapping. I've missed so much. Like this,” he holds up the copy of _Don Quixote_ he is reading. “It touches on mythology, but essentially it's a very human story. It's interesting.”

He meets Crowley's eyes and hopes his sincerity is obvious. “We need a true kitchen, tea is much better prepared the human way, I've noticed. Comfortable chairs for the sitting room. You'd likely want a settee or an actual bed rather than the duvet and mat shoved in the room the scrolls are stored. I'd like something under that window for reading. I want it to be _home_.” He pauses when he realizes Crowley is staring at him blankly from across the table, all traces of sleepiness gone, and he thinks back over his words. Ah. He's assumed Crowley would want to stay here with him; it felt so natural he hadn't even thought about it. Oh goodness.

“I don't mean to presume!” Aziraphale begins and then stops when Crowley holds his hand up, placating. 

“Angel. Lemme check in to headoffice, it's been too long, and we'll see about getting your books out of here so we can make plans.”

“Well, not all the books,” he says apologetically, but he can feel his cheeks heating with his pleased grin. He pushes back from the table and goes to retrieve his satchel from where it's hooked on the wall. “I have your assignments here. I did Trap a few and Sent them down, not as many as you bring in, mind you, but hopefully it'll be enough.”

“Ah. Um...good.” Crowley's eyebrows have arched up and he is watching Aziraphale with a curious expression as he accepts the letters. “Beelzebub won't be biting my head off.” He begins to stand too, finally looking like he's got his bipedal footing back again somewhat. “Let me go do that, hey, what are people even wearing these days?” He flips through the assignments, his frown growing exponentially. 

Aziraphale hovers at his side. He begins to rearrange things in his satchel now that he's removed a hundred years of post from Hell. “I'm fond of it,” he says. “Not the wigs,” he adds.

Crowley continues to flip through the letters, saying vaguely, “Don't know why you'd bother, You've got coloring those powdered wig prigs could only dream of. Say, angel,” he pauses and looks over to Aziraphale, “have you seen the unicorn since we thought it was offed by the flood? Hastur and Ligur got some news about it back in the mid sixteen-hundreds out of a few humans who claimed to've seen it. Unpleasantly,” he adds, shivering. 

The affable feeling residing in Aziraphale's chest at his friend's awakening twists to anguish. 

“Uh. No. Of course not,” he says shakily. He walks to a hutch on the other side of the main living space and makes for the stored magnesium to refill his travel vials. “Why would you even think that, I'd tell you if I saw the unicorn.” He bites down on his lower lip so hard he can feel it bruise and surreptitiously miracles it away. 

“Eh. Me neither,” Crowley says, unaware of Aziraphale's conflict as he starts poking around one the shelves for his worn bandolier and pocketed short coat. “We'll probably need to start looking for it though. Last check-in, Beelzebub said they'd send more Agents out after it.” He approaches Aziraphale, and he helps himself to the Infernally cursed magnesium. “Might have to kill it, unfortunately. We can't have Heaven or Hell getting hold of that horn or especially it's blood.” 

“Ah.” Aziraphale can barely choke out the sound. He corks his vial and clicks the case for his Hellfire spark. “There's really no textual evidence it's blood will dissolve the Seal, you know.”

Crowley shakes his head. “Not what Satan believes. We've been Trapping for thousands of years now. Hell's got an army of demons and enslaved Celestials and Infernals ready to go, they had it two hundred years ago.” He finishes refreshing his Trapping gear and begins prepping to leave, fastening his bandolier and stuffing his equipment in his sporran. “Was gonna talk to you about it on our way to Inverness, and then...” he smiles, but very grim. 

“I'll, um, keep an eye out for it. Crafty little Celestial that it is!” he says with a weak, forced laugh. He retrieves a container of preserved fruits from the only shelf in the cottage lacking books. “Hard to spot in this big world.”

Crowley looks at him oddly and pushes his long hair back from his face. His fingers tangle, and he frowns and miracles the soft waves into tameness. “I'm off,” he says, but he doesn't move. 

Aziraphale feels an awful guilt for his lies, but also a sadness in seeing Crowley ready to leave. He goes to him and presses the preserved fruit and rolled clothed full of bread into Crowley's hands. “Meet back here,” he suggests. “I have a quick jaunt to the Sahara for the Cerastes, but otherwise, I expect to be back.”

“You're after a snake,” Crowley says softly, with just a touch of a playful smile. “Sounds like a plan,” he adds, and he looks at Aziraphale for a few moments, lips parted like he means to continue. Aziraphale can only return the intent look, curious, until Crowley breaks their locked gaze and steps back. He tilts his head so his hair tumbles forward again and obscures Aziraphale's view. “Going now,” he murmurs and makes a slow exit from the cottage. 

“What a fine mess,” he scolds himself. He has too much nervous energy and internal anguish. He attempts to channel it into prepping his gear to leave for the desert. He has a basic idea where the Cerastes is and had planned to travel by a combination of means, but is now considering flight, even though the miracle to camouflage will drain him somewhat. 

He doesn't regret the decision. The air feels crisp against his cheeks, and he rejoices in the way his wings beat lightly in choir with the wind current he's caught. It eases some of the confusion and apprehension he feels. He needs to tell Crowley. He ought to tell Gabriel, but it is becoming a struggle to not question their motives, especially when ordered to Trap things harmless to humans. But would Crowley insist on slaughtering the unicorn like he suggested? He shoves the thoughts down so he can give attention to his Hunt. 

He opens his senses to Trace the Celestial he is in search of mid Sahara, where it's been rumored to inhabit. He has to filter out the sensation of others; the Cerastes is the Assigned target today, but the whole of northern Africa is rife with Celestials and Infernals. 

He needs to squint against the bright sand and finds a landing in lonely swath of dunes and flats. There is no sign of human life here. Aziraphale assumes it must be unsuitably hot, though he's not susceptible to the heat. The sunglare is irritating though, so he arches his wings to provide shade and searches for the Celestial he Traced as he pulls on his protective gloves. 

The Cerastes is unbelievably easy to Trap. He finally pinpoints it's little protruding horns, which are the only part of it visible above the sand. He already has the cursed magnesium in hand and powders a wide circle around where he suspects the snake-like Celestial rests. It begins to surface, spraying sand as it notices the Infernal curse encircling it. It twists and flits in a sidewind to escape. Aziraphale sparks the powder with the Hellfire spark, and the Cerastes hisses in a screechy, metallic ringing sound. It writhes against the Hellfire in an attempt to escape. 

He is quick to stretch arms and wings to make the Prayer of Ascension. Nearly minutes from first alighting down upon the sand, he already has the Celestial Sent. The effort after camouflaged flight still exhausts him though. A rest seems due; he chooses to sit with outstretched legs right in the sand. He cocks his wings so they lay out as flat as possible to soak up sunlight. 

It is quiet. It reminds him of the barrenness outside Eden. Right and wrong. Good and evil. It all seemed so easy to distinguish then. He wonders if She, who is the Creator of all colors and variety, would really whittle these extremes down to a binary. He was born into the War against the Revolting Angels, and he is still at war, though his flaming sword might have become magnesium and oil. 

He is meant to be a good, obedient angel, but among his many Sins, he feels his biggest is the lie that has rolled off his tongue toward his friend. 

There is an unusual shifting sound, and he opens eyes he didn't know he closed. There is nothing but sunlight, the sand... and the unicorn, slowly trotting it's way on the downslope of a smaller dune. Aziraphale lifts to his feet with two strong flaps of his wings. He must tilt his head away from the sight of the Celestial; it shines bright as pillars of snowy cloud and yellow fire in the Saharan sun. It makes a cheerful bleating noise as greeting and shoves it's head into Aziraphale's stomach. 

All this time, the unicorn has never sought him out. He feels stripped bare and known and is mortified to feel himself tear up at the sense of awe he feels, bordering on reverence. He thinks of Crowley's words not long ago and then does cry, an ugly thing that forces heaving sobs from his chest. He wraps his arms around the unicorns neck, and he buries his face in it's mane. 

“I'm sorry, I'm sorry!” he mumbles into the silken fur. “I want to protect you, but I lied about your existence to someone...to a very good demon that is vitally important to me, and it _hurts! _."

He releases the strangely tolerant Celestial and slumps back down to the sand. His wings are pulled in so they curve protectively around his sides. The unicorn bends it's head to nibble at his sleeve, igniting a snort of teary laughter. Aziraphale wipes his eyes on the sleeve of his linen shirt. 

“I don't know why you allow me to find you,” he says faintly as he strokes it's chest. “I want him to meet you. Maybe he won't think the solution is to kill you.”

It nickers and stamps a golden hoof into the sand but stays still. 

“You do not deserve to be sacrificed as a pawn of a pointless war between Heaven and Hell. You don't belong to the cold efficiency of Heaven. You certainly shouldn't be in Hell. You should be here on Earth, free to do as you will.” He's not so certain he is speaking of just the unicorn. 

“Dearest creature,” he says and nearly trembles at the wave of Peace and Comfort it sends him. “I pray I find the solution so you and the innocent Celestials and Infernals and all of humankind are safe.”

The unicorn only turns to nibble on one of his feathers in response.

~~~ 

PRESENT DAY, EAST SUSSEX, ENGLAND

Aziraphale phases back from interdemensional space right in the middle of the sitting room of their cottage. He needs to take two fumbling steps to retain his balance and winds up leaning against the wall. Crowley is visible through the archway to the kitchen. He has his tools of Trapping spread across the table. His head jerks up when he senses Aziraphale's arrival, and he throws his gloves back down before rushing over. 

“I called the shop! For two days straight, I was about to go your way! I thought you weren't out to Hunt?” he fusses. Aziraphale must look awful because Crowley stops suddenly and reaches for his elbow. “Hey. What's going on? Are you okay? Come sit down.” 

Aziraphale allows himself to be drawn forward and gently pushed into the settee. He blinks his eyes a few times to shake off the shock. After a moment, he looks up to meet Crowley's concerned gaze.

Crowley is sitting right on the coffee table across from him, his eyes bright yellow and widened with nervous energy. His hair's been cut short for several years now, but he's allowed it to start growing back enough that he must brush it from his vision. He looks to definitely be packing for a Hunt or something akin to it in his heavier black denim trousers, snakeskin boots, and dark fitted leather jacket over a white button up. He took to wearing a platinum chain from Tiffany's a decade ago, and Aziraphale stares blankly at the light reflected off the links. 

“Aziraphale. Hey. Angel?” Crowley pleads, the anguish in his words increasing exponentially. 

“Sorry,” he says. His voice cracks. He meets Crowley's eyes and leans back into the cushions, forgoing his usual attentive posture. 

Crowley leans forward with his arms draped on his knees. “I called the shop,” he repeats, a question this time. 

“Oh. Oh Crowley,” Aziraphale finally gets out. His jaw feels stuck in a clenched position. “It's awful. I got. I got an Assignment.” He pulls the letter with shaking fingers and passes it over. “And it was too much. I spent...I don't know how long...double checking, researching. I must have missed your first calls,” he says and smiles sadly. 

His eyebrows arch up as he reads the letter. “This is the enormous monstrous dragony thing Lucifer Created!” he says, dismayed. He meets Aziraphale's eyes again. “There's no way-” he begins, pauses, then says, “that would have killed you. Killed both of us when we woke it up. And it would wake up,” he says, shuddering. 

“I know. And so I.” He stops, closes his eyes to breathe in deeply, and opens them. “I quit.”

“You...quit,” he repeats, confused. 

“I opened communication with the Metatron and told him in no uncertain terms I would no longer be Hunting and Trapping for them, and if they'd be so obliging to provide another role on Earth, I'd be delighted, but I'm staying here.” It wasn't exactly what'd happened, but he felt it summarized it all. 

Crowley's head rears back in surprise, and he grins. He looks Aziraphale over and must realize the absence of the satchel because he reaches out and brushes his fingers over where the straps would cross.

“Oh, there's more,” Aziraphale says, but feels the first blush of promise that things will be alright, perhaps, one day. “Gabriel, Sandalphon, Michael, and Uriel came to the shop as I was ready to leave. They made some threats.”

“Not good,” Crowley murmurs. 

“Worse. As I was leaving, they set the bookshop on fire.” Saying it makes it abruptly feel real. He tilts his head to look at the exposed wooden beams of their ceiling rather than see the horror land in Crowley's expression. 

Crowley jumps to his feet so quickly the coffee table flips backwards, and he blurts, “Holy shit!” 

Aziraphale smiles weakly at that and laughs in the way one does when they are emotionally defeated but unwilling to succumb to tears. “Oh, my dear,” he says and reaches out for Crowley's hand just to hold on to it. Crowley clutches it with both hands. “We still have our home. We can still save the unicorn.” 

“About that,” Crowley starts, but Aziraphale cuts him off.

“Sorry, but I need to tell you.” He looks over Crowley's face his eyes, lips, the curve of his sharp cheekbones. His stomach clenches even tighter in blended worry and shame. If he must loose it all, his mission, his shop, Crowley, let it be at once. “I've done something completely awful.” 

“Don't wanna hear about it, angel.” He squeezes Aziraphale's hand and releases it to check his watch. 

“But Crowley!” He allows his hand to flop back into his lap and sighs, dejected.

“No, my turn, because we're running out of time.” He quickly makes his way back to the table and indicates with a wave for Aziraphale to follow. “Hastur and Ligur ordered me to find them-” he glances at his watch again, “-nearly a half-hour ago. They say they know where the unicorn is and will have it soon. But they don't really know how to Trap, no one does with any skill besides me, and we need to stop them.” He starts packing his gloves and lifts his bandolier to fasten from shoulder to hip. 

Aziraphale knows Crowley's preferences by heart and places vials and containers in their correct pouches. “Okay, Okay.” He looks down over himself. Tan leather oxfords, lighter tan wool tailored trousers. His favorite vest over a button up. His camel hair coat. Amazing how he still felt undressed without his satchel and tools of the Hunt stuffed into his coat pockets, but it would do to confront the other demons.

“How will we find them?” Aziraphale asks. He considers just saying straight out that he can locate the unicorn whenever he wants and let that speak for itself. Before he can though, Crowley stuffs his Holyfire case into a pocket and grabs Aziraphale's arm at his elbow so their forearms press against each other.

“Like this,” he says and they shift into interdimensional space and shift back out in a remote area of the Eurasian steppe. 

For a second time, Aziraphale finds himself unbalanced. He pulls his arm from Crowley's grip to steady his already trembling body. It was only a little of his energy that sustained the miracle helping them move this time, but he still feels shaken from the events of today and his wings are visible and drawn tight to his back. 

Crowley steps in front of him, wings unfurling out wide and upward so they are fully spread.

Aziraphale peeks around and whispers, “Oh goodness,'” when he sees two demons standing there, both looking shocked. He shuts his eyes the briefest moment and Traces the unicorn far too close, directly to the left, embedded but obvious among a small group of onagers, an Asiatic wild ass. 

“Whut's this, Crowley,” the first demon says. He in a black full coat and a chameleon clings to his head. 

The other demon, white haired and clad in a filthy trench, looks very angry. 

Crowley smiles, teeth grit and his nose scrunched up in nearly a snarl. 

“It's here,” Aziraphale says to Crowley. He steps to the side just enough so he can see the demons from beneath the spread primaries of Crowley's wing. 

“Hastur, Ligur,” Crowley greets, but said in a way that Aziraphale knows is meant to introduce them to him so he can put names to faces. Dukes of Hell. This is not good. 

Hastur waves a hand in a circular gesture and a wall of fire jets up straight from the ground, licking into the air and and looping around both themselves the herd of onagers where the unicorn hides. 

Aziraphale steps closer to Crowley's extended wing. He can feel the heat and frisson he normally experiences from holding the Hellfire spark in his miracled glove, but it is hundreds of times worse. 

“'S Hellfire, be careful,” Crowley hisses. The onagers bray in confused, frightened calls and begin running in terror, afraid of the fire and unable to do anything but gallop along the edges of the blaze. With a terrified bleating sound, the unicorn tries to push through the fire and swings back around in a pained, short scream. 

“Crowley,” Aziraphale shouts over the roaring fire and hysterical animals. “We need to get it out of here, and I can't be near the Hellfire!” He hears Crowley's snap and experiences a wash of a cold, nearly fluid air coating his body. He feels the demonic miracle inherent in it. Crowley has one palm outstretched toward him, eyes never leaving Hastur, and Aziraphale realizes he's sustaining some sort of bubble of safe air as a shield to his ethereal form embedded in the corporation he uses. 

Hastur cackles and keeps his hands raised to sustain the fire. “Now Crowley, you should have kept your toys at home if you didn't want them to break!” Crowley is pushing outward with his other hand aimed at Hastur in some sort of stalemate of demonic power Aziraphale doesn't understand. 

“Hellfire without cursed magnesium won't Trap anything,” Aziraphale cannot stop himself from gasping out. “What's the point of all this?”

“The point is,” Crowley nearly growls, but directs it toward Hastur, “You think you'll squeeze this circle tighter and tighter and I'll Trap it for you. Not happening!” he spits. 

“We thought that might happen,” Ligur says harshly. “We never trusted _you_, traitor,” He is slowly tracing the edge of the circle of Hellfire where the unicorn and two of the wild asses are huddling in fear. Surrounding shrubs and grasses are burning, but the fire is not of this Earth and does not spread from the circle Hastur created. 

Aziraphale watches Ligur from the corner of his eye as the demon pulls a glowing orange net from a coat pocket. He gasps; It's something he's never seen but had heard Michael once mention, a net woven from hairs of Infernal Creatures and cursed to siphon power and entrap a Celestial by nearly searing into it's flesh. He was horrified Heaven would even consider constructing or even imagining such a thing, but it is there, now, held up and stretched between Ligur's two hands.

Crowley makes the mistake of taking his eyes off of Hastur for a moment to see what Ligur has pulled out, and Hastur throws one hand forward so a jet of Hellfire flame shoots toward Crowley, and by proximity, Aziraphale. 

It moves through Crowley harmlessly, and Aziraphale drops down flat to his belly in a move that digs into his chest, but the flame burns above his head without singing his hair. Or maybe it's the demonic miracle Crowley still sustains even now, as he stands angled, one hand toward Aziraphale and one back toward Hastur. Aziraphale misses the security his satchel brought him even though it's contents wouldn't be very helpful. 

From where he is prone upon the ground, Aziraphale can only watch in fear as Ligur flings the net into the air. Aziraphale reaches with one hand to try and knock it off course with a gust of air, but between the Hellfire and the cursing on the netting, it doesn't do much. The onagers and unicorn scatter, one nearly trampling him, but the net misses the unicorn by moments and falls upon a hapless onager. It makes a pained, desperate cry, and it's fur sizzles under the Infernal netting. 

Ligur swears and goes to retrieve the net. Aziraphale scrambles back to his feet and shoots a wild look at Crowley, who is clearly straining under the effort of all that he is trying to hold together. His wings are quivering, and he and Hastur have been trading snide remarks and attempting to overpower each other.

The onagers are frantic now, the circle of Hellfire closing inward, corralling them all into a tighter space. Aziraphale can feel the encroaching Hellfire even through the protective bubble Crowley is maintaining. He feels desperate. He shoots a glance over toward the unicorn. It is still pressed against two of the onagers, bleating frantically while the rest call out in fearful braying. 

Ligur has the net in hand again and has crept up on the frightened animals and Celestial; the circle of Hellfire is only a dozen feet in diameter now. Crowley shakes, focusing on Hastur. Aziraphale is already drained from his conversation with the Metatron and the Archangels and miracling himself home, but he whips his head over to the unicorn and sees it's wide, terrified eyes and mouth foaming from it's panting breaths and makes a decision to try something he's never done. 

“Drop your sustained miracle over me!” he calls out to Crowley. 

Crowley doesn't look so as not to make the same mistake as before, but he folds his wings in close and yells back over the roar of fire, “NO! Aziraphale?” 

“Do it! Trust me!” 

He feels the coolness slip away and instead now suffers the heat of the Hellfire threatening to singe through him and destroy him completely. He turns, and just as Ligur has cornered the onagers and unicorn, he takes the chance to squeeze his eyes shut and concentrate, yanking hard on his Heavenly Grace to build up well of miraculous energy deep in his ethereal core. 

He spins toward Ligur, now so cold it is starting to burn as it spreads throughout his body, simmering in his fingertips and eyes, spilling from his corporation in a radiant shimmer. All this is wound up within him, energy coiled tight. He fights to keep his wings drawn in, away from the Hellfire, and with both arms raised up in a parody of how he'd drawn down from Heaven for the Prayer of Ascension, he pulls _ hard _ and unleashes it all in one tremendous burst of light and electricity that snaps and Smites Ligur off all planes of existence.

He heaves as everything leaves him at once and stumbles back a step, breathing hard, careful to balance so he doesn't back up too far. The air smells of ozone and sulfuric fumes. 

The unicorn quickly gallops away from the airborne netting and makes an arching leap over the gradually dwindling wall Hellfire. 

Crowley and Hastur both startle at the Smiting, and Crowley smirks and focuses everything on Hastur, warning him, “Better give in now!” 

Aziraphale remains still, exhausted and breathing hard, and watches Crowley retrieve one of his containers of consecrated oil from his bandolier now that he's not splitting his attention. Crowley flips the top off with his thumb and empties it toward Hastur in a flinging toss so it splashes out in an oozing slick mess over his body. It's not much, but it's enough to force Hastur to stagger and cry out, dropping his concentration. Crowley takes advantage of it to spread his hands outward in a in a horizontal sweep and eliminate the Hellfire from existence. 

“You traitor!” Hastur screams out, looking from Crowley to the steaming ground where Ligur recently stood and over to Aziraphale with true fear in his eyes. “You will regret this; we'll be back, for both of you!” He separates into a writhing, sickly pile of maggots that all bury themselves into the earth and disappear from view. 

Aziraphale is a little dizzy but looks around in every direction, not seeing where the unicorn has run off. He finds comfort in knowing it did run, and the remaining onagers have joined it the moment the Hellfire dissipated. The injured animal still brays dejectedly from where it is struggling to get to it's feet before it collapses again. 

“Can you help it?” he begs Crowley, who is staring down at the charcoaled remains of what was once Ligur in disbelief. “I feel like I have nothing left!”

Crowley pulls himself from whatever headspace he occupies and looks over at Aziraphale sharply, making a quick assessment with his eyes before approaching the frightened wild ass. He hisses low shhhhssshing noises to calm it. It attempts to scramble away and then stops, allowing Crowley to place a hand over it's bristly fur and heal the singed network of burns. It stands, shakes itself once Crowley finishes, and gallops off to join it's herd. 

Aziraphale looks to the southwest where he has located the lifespark of the unicorn and then looks back over to Crowley. 

“He'll be back,” Crowley says, and he looks up from where he was staring at Ligur's remains again. “Especially...” he takes several wobbly steps over to Aziraphale and comes near enough to rest both his palms on Aziraphale's shoulders. “What'dya do?” he asks, softly. His eyes are wide and his face pale. 

“I couldn't think of anything else,” Aziraphale says, his words caught in his throat.“Never smote anyone before, but...” He is shaking and he stretches his wings restlessly. “They'll be back, and the other angels will not be far behind.” 

He quiets and studies his friend. The misery of the entire situation is worn openly in Crowley's expression. He has just defied Hell's orders same as Aziraphale has rejected his own side, and it is a frightful but glorious burden of uncertainty. 

“We'll need to start over, Track it,” Crowley says, his forehead and eyebrows scrunched in thought. “I doubt they'll tell me now if they find any Trace of it.” 

Aziraphale is shattered into pieces like broken glass, the little shards of what once defined him scattered haphazardly. But broken glass can be renewed, melted down and shaped into something different, or picked of the best pieces into a new design, a mosaic in lead that is stronger and more colorful. 

He has lost his shop, his library of mythology, his purpose, but retains his belief, his home, his... Crowley, who he still might lose.

Who is watching him now, lightly trembling and uncertain, still resting his hands upon Aziraphale's shoulders like he is reassuring himself Aziraphale is unharmed from Hellfire. 

Aziraphale gives in and pulls Crowley into a hug, slipping his arms around Crowley's back and pressing his nose into Crowley's collarbone. 

“I can find the unicorn,” he admits, and the rocks lodged in his gut dissolve with his words. “I lied to you, I always could find it, for years.”

Crowley inhales sharply but clings tighter. 

“Aziraphale,” he whispers.

“Please,” he chokes out, “Let me show you.” He pushes his forehead into the shoulder of Crowley's jacket, muffling his voice, but it allows him to find the words he needs. “I've visited with it, spoken to it like a friend, and you might think I'm silly but I care for it, and that's why I couldn't let you or anyone kill it,” his voice cracks for the very first time, and he knows he's gotten tears on Crowley's leather jacket. 

“How?” Crowley asks, and Aziraphale cannot see his expression but is reassured by how his arms still cling, how his body leans in, how his chin rests upon Aziraphale's head as he keeps it tucked into Crowley's shoulder. 

“Like this,” he whispers, intentionally echoing Crowley's words from earlier. He has no idea where he finds the strength but he pulls Crowley with him, the miracle shifting them to materialize where he senses the unicorn's spark of life. 

They appear near a stream not too far off from where they found Hastur and Ligur. The unicorn is standing in the shallow, bubbling water, pebbles clacking against it's hooves. It twitches it's ears when they appear, but it continues to drink. 

Aziraphale steps back from Crowley and slips his arms away. He fluffs his wings and sends them back into interdementional space, and for the first time since he confessed, he looks at Crowley for his fate. 

Crowley stands still, eyes darting between the unicorn and Aziraphale like he is unsure where to start first. His lips are parted in shock and his wings have drooped so they brush the grasses along the creek.

The silence nips at Aziraphale and he says, babbling, “So there's my big secret. Keeping it from you, lying right at you when you've only been good to me, and I won't have you deny it,” he adds when it looks like Crowley wants to protest. His tears are too welled to blink back now so they roll down his cheeks. He slants his gaze away, watching the unicorn swish it's tail at bothersome insects. The unicorn appears to be watching the entire affair play out as if it understands. 

“It's okay,” Crowley finally says, soft and delicate like he's afraid his words will fracture Aziraphale more. 

“It's really not,” he says and looks back at him.

“Shhhhhh. Come here, love, it's over, you and I are fine, we're together in this now,” he says and this time he snakes his arms around Aziraphale and pulls him to his chest, sliding one hand to cradle his head but not before pressing a chaste kiss to his forehead. 

“How can you... how can you forgive me?” Aziraphale says, his voice frayed from distress and his tears running freely. “I've been a damned fool, a terrible Agent of Heaven and an even worse friend to you.”

“Oh angel,” Crowley murmurs into Aziraphale's curls. “Once a very wise and very curious Principality sat on the walls of Eden and told a demon that 'even the damned are deserving of absolution'.” 

They stay that way, holding on to each other, until Aziraphale feels yanking on his coat. He lifts his head from Crowley's shoulder to see the unicorn attempting to push it's nose into his pocket. 

“I bring it sugar sometimes,” he says. He flicks his eyes quickly over to Crowley and back to the unicorn and catches the indulgent smile on his lips. 

“I didn't think it would come near me,” Crowley says. 

Aziraphale releases him but stays close and takes Crowley's hand. He holds it out to the unicorn's snout. It snuffles at their joined hands. 

“I didn't think,” Crowley repeats breathlessly, and when Aziraphale let's his hand go, he reaches to stroke at the unicorn's mane like Aziraphale has done dozens of times. The unicorn pushes it's usual aura of Peace and affection outward, and he watches as Crowley's jaw drops and eyes widen as experiences this for the first time.

Crowley looks utterly blown away and for once, speechless.

“You can see now, right? It's different? Different than any of the Celestials or Infernals?” Aziraphale feels like he must speak in hushed tones, like this moment is sacred. 

“Yeah,” he says, so low it's nearly silent. 

“We need to try and take it with us, but miracles don't work on it, I've tried. It won't go near human transportation, or humans, for that matter, and the nearest village from here is very far. ”

“We'll walk.” Crowley's other arm is still wrapped around Aziraphale's back and he draws him closer to his side. “However long it takes. Maybe we can fly it back?” he asks. 

“Tried that. It becomes afraid and thrashes.” Aziraphale reaches for the fourth pocket down on the bandolier Crowley wears and retrieves a small skein of roping. He ties it around the unicorn's neck, surprised at both the way it stays still for him and at how Crowley continues to cling to his side, even as he secures the unicorn. 

“Could be a possibility.” 

“Yeah,” Aziraphale says, sighing. “So what now?” 

“Now we walk.” 

PRESENT TIME, MOVING WEST THROUGH THE STEPPE OF MONGOLIA INTO REMOTE KAZAKHSTAN 

They walk. And walk. Days pass. 

They take turns holding the rope tied around the unicorn's neck, but it never really fights and trots along between them. The try once to fly with it together, and the moment they leave the ground, it slips away and reappears on the surface. And so they walk. 

It is the longest continuous stretch of time Aziraphale and Crowley have been allowed to spend together. 

During the days, they talk of Celestials and Infernals they've Trapped on their own, sharing their stories and their mistakes. Aziraphale talks of his hopes for their future, for humankind. For them, together. About how he wishes they could travel for fun and not the Hunt, to dine out and attend the theater. Crowley admits to how he's always wanted to try driving an automobile. 

During the evenings, Crowley holds Aziraphale and names the stars.

The unicorn is petted and coddled and once, Crowley has it's tail and mane put into braids tied up with his own hair ribbons from when he kept his much longer. 

They walk and walk and days pass and pass and they only stop at night for Crowley and the unicorn to sleep while Aziraphale stands as guardian angel. 

When it is dry, Aziraphale miracles water from moisture in the atmosphere for the unicorn to drink.

When it is bare, Crowley miracles the seed bank to sprout and produce grass overnight for the unicorn to eat. 

After five days, Crowley panics and does not sleep for three nights, worried Hell will come back for him, and Aziraphale comforts him. 

After twenty days, Aziraphale breaks down and mourns his lost collection he's carefully gathered for six thousand years, and Crowley comforts him. 

After thirty-five days, they share their very first real kiss, brief but deep and achingly tender, but go no further than this so they can always keep watch over the unicorn. 

They spend forty days and forty nights walking their way west through remote Mongolia and eastern Kazakhstan. 

On forty-first day, thunder crashes in the clear sky and lightning strikes the ground from Heaven above. Archangels and angels of the third sphere stand before them, holding golden, flaming chains that enslave the Creatures they have Trapped for Heaven. 

Aziraphale's wings flare out wide, and he stands in front of the unicorn. Crowley's do the same, and he stands behind, holding the unicorn's rope. 

“This has gone on long enough, Agent Aziraphale.” Gabriel says. He holds a flaming chain leading to a growling Ysengrim. The other angels all pull back on their Celestials and Infernals as the Creatures writhe against their bonds. 

“The unicorn, Agent,” Michael orders. “You are a traitor to Heaven, to the Almightly.” They are barely restraining Ai Tojon, the two headed eagle, as it pulls against it's chains to reach the sky. 

“No.” It is simple and heartfelt and Aziraphale feels a bittersweet victory at being true to his beliefs. He smiles pure and whole and feels oddly at peace rather than frightened. 

The Celestials and Infernals become increasingly agitated and suddenly, the surface rumbles so thoroughly everyone staggers for their footing.

“And here's the blessed rest,” Crowley bites out. 

Demons erupt through the ground, opposite of the Angels, throwing the sandy soil everywhere. 

They also have leashed Infernals and Celestials, bound with collars or cuffs upon their limbs that restrain. 

Crowley and Aziraphale move so they are nearly back-to-back, the unicorn pushed between, shrouded by their wings. 

Beelzebub has a gauntlet upon their arm and Bakbakwakanooksiewae is tethered to it by jess.

“Crowley!” Beelzebub says, “You allowed an angel to zzzmite Ligur and have the unicorn in your handzzzz, but even now you defy ZZZatan'zz orderzz to remove it'zz horn and bring it'zzz blood!” 

“Yeah, sorry, I like this one, think I'm gonna keep it,” he says. He has his last container of consecrated oil in his hand, holding it without his gloves, and the rope for the unicorn still clenched in the other. It is a pebble against a giant. 

The demons are not as stiff and still as the angels, and some of the Creatures paw at the ground, pulling at their restraints. “You're in for it now, Agent Crowley!” Hastur says, barely able to keep his leashed Infernal in check. 

Gabriel breaks from the line of angels and walks forward toward them as Ysengrim pulls and snarls, spittle flying and dripping from his enormous jaws. “Why do you feel like you're above the Plan, Aziraphale?” he says conversationally. “You aren't, no one is. Why don't you hand the unicorn over like a good angel while you still have a chance? Repent. You want to be a good angel still, right, Agent?”

Aziraphale is upset for the first time since the other angels came to Earth. “The Plan? We don't know the Plan! It's ineffable!” he says miserably. “And I doubt the Plan includes draining this unique Creature of it's blood so we can...we can-” he stutters, so flustered he cannot find the correct word, “_force_ the Apocalypse on our own terms just so Heaven and Hell can fight it out!” He cannot help but break here, like he should stand and take his fate, but he feels the unicorn nudging it's head against his thigh and Crowley's soft but proud whisper of 'you tell them, angel!' in his ear. 

He steps forward, just enough to make a point but still blocking the unicorn from view. “You told me I was Trapping them to save the humans! Not to fight a war over their fallen bodies!” he cries. Some of the angels are looking at each other, seeming to be uncertain for the first time since they materialized. 

There is talking now, from both sides, and Beelzebub comes forward, the highest ranking Demon present. 

“Agentzzzz...if you want to zzzpare the life of the unicorn that much, let me take it'zzz horn only?” They say in an attempt at making a deal.“You leave with it, I leave with the horn. It'zzz a zzatisfactory deal for both of uzz. _ We _ are patient enough to wait for our victory, unlike zzzome!” 

Aziraphale turns to look Beelzebub and wonders if they should take this as an out since it all appears so hopeless. They can always try and retrieve the horn. 

“I don't think so!” Crowley snaps, “How 'bout you turn right back around and leave us alone. Both of you!” he adds, tilting his head to include Gabriel in his anger. Aziraphale grins, feeling crazy, feeling a swell of adoration for Crowley, feeling sorrow in how he likely cannot fulfill his promise to the unicorn. 

“Wait a minute,” Gabriel says sharply. “There's no guarantee you would-” 

Aziraphale never discovers what Gabriel meant to say because at that second, Dagon loses hold of the Gowrow, a twenty foot long, wingless dragonlike Celestial Creature, and it launches itself at Ysingrim. They meet in a ferocious clash of teeth and limb, and Gabriel drops the chain he holds, his wings extending in defense to push him back a few feet. His face is one of surprise at his loss of control.

Sandalphon releases his Pkuwa crocodile intentionally to fight off the Gowrow, and in moments, it is pandemonium. 

Infernal and Celestial Creatures are released from both sides, clashing with feathers and teeth and claw. An impatient demon runs after his Creature toward the line of angels and throws a balled cloth that ignites with Hellfire as it's released. An angel Aziraphale does not recognize must flee from it. 

The unicorn startles and pulls from Crowley's hand to gallop into the fray. He scrambles after it instantly, ducks a blast of something putrid from the Gowrow and dives for the rope. “Help!” he shouts, but Aziraphale is already running, wings tight to his back, from the moment he first saw the unicorn startle. 

Aziraphale sees Hastur come up from beneath the soil in his grotesque swarm of maggots that engulf the unicorn. It bleats dreadfully and Hastur coalesces to stand astride it and lock it within his knees, one hand gripping it's horn and the other a fearsome bone-saw. The unicorn tries to whip it's head.

Aziraphale is afraid, but he and Crowley have been at this thousands of years longer than any other angel or demon. Crowley is there now and pushes his right wing backward, hard, a blow across Hastur's abdomen. Hastur loses his grip on the saw, and the moment he doubles over from the pain, Aziraphale reaches them and shoves as hard as he can to knock Hastur off balance. He drops to his knees to wrap his own arms around the unicorn. 

“I _ will _ smite you!” Aziraphale threatens desperately at Hastur, and the look on his face must be something intense because Hastur backs off with a frightened expression. 

Crowley slides into place on the other side of the unicorn and lifts a disbelieving eyebrow at Aziraphale. He drapes as much of his body as possible over it and arches his wings protectively. There is a cut on his cheek seeping ichor, and he is grinning maniacally. 

Aziraphale mirrors his wings and strokes the unicorn's mane, knowing any moment, their temporary reprieve will be cut short. 

“We're going to the end, aren't we?” Crowley says. 

“I don't mind,” Aziraphale says shakily. “I promised it I would protect it, and if I'm killed trying, so be it.” He is shuddering and he has one hand knotted in the unicorn's silken hair and the other hand twisted tight into Crowley's shirt collar. “You didn't make the same promise,” he whispers. 

Crowley pushes his forehead against Aziraphale's. “Don't be stupid. I go where you go.” 

There is a screeching noise, a flash of light and heat, and a sudden, awful pain punching through Aziraphale's side.

He shuts his eyes. 

And then there is nothing.

~~~ 

??????????????????

There is absence of pain, numbness of feelings, arms around emptiness. 

It is quiet. 

But it smells like...like vanilla and chocolate?

With an enormous amount of effort, Aziraphale opens his eyes. He is on his side, laid out on a bright orange shag carpet. It is so strange he pushes himself up with his hands and sits, cross-legged, looking around, feeling very disoriented. A crackling radio is playing an orchestral version of Edelwiess, and he realizes he is in a room furnished with browns and oranges and golds he'd last seen popular in the 1970s. 

“Hey, it was a good decade,” he hears, but it echoes into his head. He looks up, unsure what to expect at this point. It is definitely not the unicorn, looking safe and healthy and standing next to a beanbag chair where Crowley is sprawled, asleep. 

“I.” he shakes his head but whatever is affecting him does not disappear. “Am I unconscious?”

“Oh my dear precious Child.” The unicorn shimmers and disintegrates in a silvery fluff like a dandelion head puffed out and caught in the wind. In it's place is a Light, so intense to look upon it sears Aziraphale's eyes, and he must bow his head away. 

“Is this better?”

He reopens his eyes and a figure stands before him, humanish but not quite, with features that do not settle and a brightness that flickers so rapidly it is hard to look for long. 

“Oh,” he sighs. It is She. 

“Come, Aziraphael.” He takes Her hand, feeling completely detached from himself, and follows Her to a small table in a quaint kitchen where the vanilla and chocolate smell appears to be drifting from an oven.

“Please sit,” She says. 

He does. And looks around the kitchen, also very seventies. He feels so bemused he thinks he must be dead and these are the last strange images of his consciousness. 

“Oh, you're not dead.” 

He forgets God knows all, including his thoughts. 

“Aziraphael. You sacrificed yourself for Me. I have been on Earth, I've always been there. I Chose the form of the Unicorn and I Chose to Use the Rumors I spread about My Horn and the Blood of My Body as a Test for My Angels and a Test for My Fallen Children.”

Aziraphale is absolutely bewildered. “I didn't know,” he says, too quietly for normal ears, but She can Hear. His entire being is suffused with Love and Caring and Peace, and it feels exactly the same as what he felt emanate from the unicorn. That, more than anything, makes him understand that this is real. 

“I know you didn't, and that's what makes what you've done so Pure.”

He looks at Her and is filled with shame. “Some of the things I've told you over the years, you must be so disappointed in me.” He drops his gaze down to the green and rust tablecloth and hears Her move to the oven and hears the scraping sound of a pan being removed. 

Several moments later, he feels fingers on his chin, and his head is tipped up. He must squint to face Her properly. 

“My Child. You came to me as a friend. You shared your burdens with me. You fed me when I was hungry, you gave me water when I was thirsty. You even brought me treats,” She says with laughter. 

She releases him and places a cupcake onto a plate that has appeared before him. He looks back up at her, confused.

“Now I have brought you a treat, Dear Aziraphael. Do not be afraid. I have Forgiven your Sins.”

He looks at the cupcake, now feeling confused and lost, but it is a direction when he has none so he goes ahead and enjoys it. As he is finishing the last bit, there's noise in the room with the shag rug, and he hears Crowley call out, “Angel?” sounding somewhat frantic. 

Crowley runs into the kitchen, slows when he sees Aziraphale at the table and then _freezes. _

“Seraphiel.” She greets. She pulls a chair out for Crowley, and he nearly falls into it, his face bearing an expression of fearfulness and shock.

Aziraphale can only watch in surprise. Crowley fumbles for his hand across the table and squeezes tight. 

“I thought,” Crowley husks, then clears his throat. “I thought we were gonners.” He looks into Aziraphale's eyes as if needing to make sure he is safe and turns back toward the Almighty. “It was You, the unicorn,” he says to Her. “I thought, when it felt like Peace, it felt familiar.” 

She smiles proudly. “Always a bright one, my Seraphiel.”

“Crowley,” he snaps. “You didn't want the Seraph Seraphiel anymore.” He shakes, and Aziraphale keeps his hand tight on Crowley's. 

She nods. “I have forgiven you many times over, dear Seraphiel, Crowley.”

“I don't want it,” he says.

“And yet, you have it, and one day, I Believe you will Accept it,” She says. She places one of the cupcakes in front of him, and he looks up at her oddly. 

“It's very good,” Aziraphale says inanely because he has no real clue what to say and do and is completely thrown by unexpectedly having Crowley's angelic past outed to him. 

Crowley looks away from God and over at Aziraphale. He reluctantly smiles, his eyes very gold and black in this décor, but visible with the love he has given over. He splits the cupcake in half and passes part over to him before shrugging his shoulders and eating his half. 

Aziraphale sneaks a glance at Her and realizes She is grinning widely. 

“Er. What happens next?” he asks, nibbling on the cupcake half.

“Next, you may finally rest.” She says. She has taken a seat at the table as well and has her own cupcake to enjoy. 

“Is that a euphemism for death...” he begins and Crowley squeezes the hand he is still gripping and smothers a laugh. 

“No my Child, my Principality of Earth. You will return and begin your True work, and care for humankind in the ways you always were happy to speak of to Me on your visits.”

“Oh. Oh thank you,” he says, feeling both elated and flustered. “But Crowley?” he must ask, because there will be no happiness on earth without Crowley, and their relationship in it's new possibilities has barely begun.

“_Crowley_ wants to be left alone on Earth from either side and be allowed to finally _live_,” Crowley states. He looks up at Her, his expression both fearful and brave. 

She smiles kindly upon him. “And you will have that,” She says. “In spades.”

“What about the other Celestials and Infernals,” Crowley asks. “Will you leave them? Take them? I don't want.” He turns so he is facing the other room, turned away from God. “I don't want them hurt. Can you send them to where they were meant to go in the first place?” he says. 

“It is already Done.” 

Crowley looks back, first in contemplation, then with a growing smile that reaches the corners of his eyes. “Good,” he says and drums his fingers not holding Aziraphale's on the table. 

Aziraphale imagines he can feel Crowley's joy resonate within his heart. 

“It is time to send you back home, Dearest Aziraphael, Dearest Seraphiel, _Crowley_,” She corrects, thought it must be an Intentional Correction, a Rewriting of some sort because both Crowley and Aziraphale shiver at the same time. 

“Go in Peace.”

The last thing Aziraphale sees is Her, appearing back in her form of a unicorn.

~~~

They appear on Earth, dropped standing right where they'd been curled together over the unicorn. All the Celestial and Infernal Creatures are gone. Aziraphale keeps hold of Crowley's hand and looks over the barren, grassy land that spreads from horizon to horizon. The sky is a transcendent blue and the sun is golden. 

Everyone is on their knees. 

She must be speaking directly into their heads, to the Angels, even to the Demons, and many on both sides are in tears or shaking. 

Aziraphale does not know what is being said. He does not want to know. 

One by one, the angels leave for Heaven in flashes of brightness and the demons sink into the ground until Aziraphale and Crowley are the only two left in the emptiness. 

“What now?” Aziraphale asks, keeps asking because he is feeling very insecure. He knows very little about life beyond the Hunt, the research, and the Trapping. 

“We live.”

Crowley releases Aziraphale's hand for the first time since he'd grabbed it in the Almighty's Kitchen, and wasn't that an oddity, Aziraphale thinks. He watches as Crowley removes his bandolier and drops it in the scrubgrass. He empties the pockets of his leather jacket from what little is left of the Infernally cursed magnesium, the case with the Holyfire spark, the very last of the consecrated oil. 

He pulls out the lambskin gloves, holds them up, and then his eyes slant over toward Aziraphale's. “We'll keep these,” he says, his mild smile becoming a wicked smirk. Aziraphale feels himself blushing. 

“Let's go home, angel.” He grabs for Aziraphale's hand again and threads their fingers, and they move by miracle home to their cottage.

~~~ 

POSTSCRIPT

In the new beginning, Aziraphale observes stars in the charcoal sky from the garden of the cottage Crowley built for them many years before. He is forgiven of Sin, and this is his Eden. He leans back against the chest and within the arms of a beloved demon. 

He listens as Crowley tells stories about constellations in the sky. Stories of where the Celestial and Infernal Creatures might live. 

“What do you remember of Heaven from before, my love?” Aziraphale asks. 

“Some. It's been a long time since I've been an angel.”

“I wish I didn't remember. I opened my eyes upon my Creation, had a flaming sword thrust into my hand, and was sent to battle.”

It is quiet, but it is a peaceful quiet. Aziraphale's head is tipped back onto Crowley's shoulder, and he is snug between Crowley's outstretched legs. 

“First we made stars,” Crowley says very softly into his ear, “then we painted the universe. Then, She came to us and said we were to help Her fill it with all manner of Celestial Creatures. We had so much freedom with what to Design.”

Aziraphale sighs and rests his hands over the arms wrapped around his chest. “I didn't know,” he whispers. “Did it hurt to Trap them, knowing what they were meant for, knowing you Created some of them?”

“Sometimes.”

“They're free now, where they're supposed to be.”

“So are we.”

END

**Author's Note:**

> some notes:  
I feel terrible there is no Bentley. It's one of my favorite fictional vehicles in the planet after the Enterprise and Kitt. And oh gosh, I forgot the HMS Surprise and Tardis... looks like I have an addiction. 
> 
> I researched every mythological creature using at least three sources to find the most accurate description, but they all do not appear in this story where and when their legend originates thanks to 6k earth history.


End file.
